


Your Good Neighbor

by WindraDeadZed



Series: New World Order [3]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Banter, Canon Divergence, Dangerous Minds quest, Delving a little into Kent's past, Except for part 2, F/M, Firefighter Tradition, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, He's gonna kinda be the focal point of this part, Kent suffers from Aspergers, Nick gets a hug, Platonic Flirting, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, SO MUCH BANTER, That'll be from Nora's perspective, The Silver Shroud - Freeform, and dialogue, if that's a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-08-31 11:48:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8577316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WindraDeadZed/pseuds/WindraDeadZed
Summary: Next Step: GoodneighborKent Connolly watches one familiar face and one new one walk into the Memory Den. Suddenly, in the span of one night, the whole town whirrs with a new kind of vibrancy.





	1. Dangerous Minds

_"Rhett? Rhett Rhineheart? How ya doin', buddy?"  
  
"Well if it isn't the S-S-Shroud! I ain't heard from ya in a huh-hot minute!"  
  
_ Once upon a time in the sleepy coastal town of Cape Cod, there were two brothers.  
  
_"I know, little brother. I know. Been kinda busy here."  
  
"Gettin' a lotta cases, are ya?"  
  
"Oh yeah. The big city's busy as hell this time o' year."  
  
_ Twins. Born on the same day, mere minutes apart. Leroy was big, strong, _smart_. Brawns and brain in one well-defines, handsome body. The other one, Kent, was ... _simple_. Happy-go-lucky over the smallest details. Content to hide himself from the wayward world to indulge in the not-so-common gifts bereft to man.  
  
_"Whatcha got cookin'?"  
  
"Well, I can't really discuss 'em openly ... Gotta be discreet and all ... "  
  
"Oh, c'mon! Puh-please? Ya know I won't steer ya wrong!"  
  
"Well ... "  
  
_ They spent their years of blissful childhood sitting in the big room during cold winter nights, sipping hot chocolate and listening to Shroud broadcasts over the radio. When school wasn't in session, they would run laps around the beach, playing out scenarios from _The Unstoppables_. The Silver Shroud and his trusty companion, Rhett Rhineheart. Other children would join in. The whole day would be wasted to busting criminals, unraveling juvenile plots, solving crimes, digging proverbial graves, sweeping the dame off her feet ...  
  
_"There's this new chick, right? Just moved here from the Big Apple. Used to live here a long time ago, right? The Assistant Chief and her go waaaaaaaaaaay back. A bit older, kinda outta my league but hell, she's one helluva minx - "  
  
"Leroy, ya know ge-gettin' involved with gals was the Shroud's biggest weakness. Got him all tangled in th-the Lobo-Lobotah-Lobotomizer's labs in Issue #41."  
  
"I know, I know. But just 'cause I'm chained to the tree doesn't mean I can't bark at the porch."  
  
_ Well, the _dame_ thing was more Leroy's style. Most of the girls in their early school years had crushes on him. When they got older and their classes got split up, Leroy would start walking folks of the opposite sex home, always ending the stride with a peck on the cheek or (with age) on the lips. A new flame every week. Their mother never approved of his womanizing nature, attempting to snuff it out with strict bed-times and threats of being grounded. But the teenage Leroy learned the benefit of escaping through windows or picking his way out of locked doors.  
  
Of course, there were complications. His first car was keyed so many times that, after a while, Leroy stopped paying to have the damages fixed. Trips to the movies were laden with women begging to be taken back, or fruits being thrown at their windows  
  
_"Ya ready for this weekend, Kent?"  
  
"Of-of course! Episode twenty's gonna air!"  
  
"Ya damn right. Get that radio primes and the hot cocoa ready, boyo. We got a long night ahead o' us!"  
  
"Momma'll be stoked."  
  
_ Apart from Leroy's tendency to leave women on the curb, Kent had always admired his bigger brother.  
  
The man was a model student. He hated bullies, often ending their habits by putting them on the ground himself. He respected his elders. Walking old ladies across the street was commonplace. Never littered. Always reported strange things to the police. Helped out around the house and volunteered with community service when his down-time wasn't devoted to hanging out with his little brother ...  
  
Twice, Leroy chased down purse-snatchers and made them regret their lives.  
  
And he always cheered Kent on, no matter how difficult learning and focusing became. Leroy would stay up all night tutoring him at the expense of his own grades (although he would strive to improve them later on down the road, often successfully).  
  
To Kent, Leroy was the Silver Shroud. For the lazy town of Cape Cod ... for his mom ... for _him_.  
  
_"About that ... Mom said you were giving her a hard time 'bout your medication."  
  
"Y-yeah ... "  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I ... don't wanna take it anymore. It makes me feel ... stupid. Slow."  
  
"You're not stupid or slow, you oaf."  
  
"But everybody else says I'm an in-invalid. I can't - I'm not - C-c-can't even drive or or or - "  
  
"Listen up, bud. Those guys, tellin' ya all that crap? Their assholes. They're jealous of you cuz you got somethin' they don't."  
  
"I do?"  
  
"Uh-huh. Ya got **innocence**."  
  
"Is that g-good?"  
  
"Hell yeah it is! Ya think the Silver Shroud would be traipsin' along with some low-life scum selling hooch on the streets?"  
  
"No ... "  
  
"That's right. The Shroud needs someone that'll cast a ray of sunshine on a rainy day. Someone that can see the good when all's gone bad."  
  
"But I wanna be s-s-strong like you."  
  
"Strength ain't everythin'. Just makes ya dumb in other spots, y'know?Ya gotta have strength of character. That's way more important. Maybe ya ain't an Einstein, brother, but you gotta heart of gold that'll change the world one day. That's why you're my Rhett Rhineheart."  
  
_ One day, at the altering age of 18, Leroy left Cape Cod for Boston with big city lights in his eyes. He'd dreamed of becoming a cop at a young age. A detective, even, just like the Shroud ...  
  
And Kent was left alone. Except for holidays ... and birthdays ... and weekends when Leroy would drive all the way back to the cape to mingle ... and moments like these, once a week, when Leroy would phone home to talk to Kent and his mother.  
  
_"So you gotta make sure you take your medicine, okay? Maybe it's tedious. And I know if makes ya feel like less of a man, but it makes ya better - keeps ya stridin' way ahead of those idiots tellin' ya otherwise. Don't listen to 'em, okay? They ain't important. Your friends, your family - **they're** important."  
  
"Okay ... okay, I will, Leroy."  
  
"Alright. Good. I'mma see ya this Friday, okay?"  
  
"Right-o. I miss you."  
  
"I miss you too, bro."  
  
"G-g'night, Shroud."  
  
"Night night, Rhett. Give Mom a big sloppy kiss for me, 'kay?"  
  
_ _________  
  
Fumbling with the volume dials, switching holotape after holotape of the Silver Shroud broadcasts from centuries past ... that was his life now. And Kent really didn't mind it. Sure, it wasn't quite the same ... No hot cocoa. No Leroy. No warm blankets and plush carpets and late nights huddled in anticipation. But he liked to think that somewhere out there in post-war Boston was a family enjoying his radio station ...  
  
He was grateful to Irma and Amari. They'd been so willing to help him set up shop. And there was never a complaint about his presence. Rather, they seemed so _happy_ when he walked out of the room for food. They'd beckon him to sit, spin tales about the Commonwealth - and the more he listened, the more he dreaded for the future.  
  
Everything was so _bleak_.  
  
A raided settlement here ... Triggermen strong-arming a caravan there ... The Brotherhood of Steel's blimp shadowing the land with the promise of war ...  
  
The only _good_ bits of news were rumors of a settlement out of the north birthing a new generation of Minutemen.  
  
Kent leaned into his palm and sighed as the Silver Shroud narrator announced today's episode: 'The Wild Wendigo'. " _Will our dark diviner of death defy this dramatic defiler? Or will it be the end for - "  
  
_ "Nick Valentine! Well, as I live and breath ... and here I thought you'd left me for good."  
  
"I might've walked out of the den, Irma, but I'd _never_ walk out on you."  
  
His eyes snapped open. The voice was raspy, haggard, _old_. The ghoul knew that grizzled tone anywhere, and a sort of surprised disappointment filled him. This wasn't Valentine's first visit to the Memory Den - but it was the _very first_ where the detective hadn't made an effort to stop by and see him.  
  
Poking his head through the crack of his door, Kent quickly discovered why.  
  
He did _not_ recognize the woman _with_ Valentine. But their mutual expression of pending dread made it clear this wasn't a social call. Nick was on a case, and that meant the detective was in serious mode. So the woman ... was probably his client.  
  
Kind of an impressive one, too.  
  
She was tall. Crazy tall. Practically eye-to-eye with Nick. And her hair was long and beautiful - pale blond, almost _silver_ to match her almost-ghostly skin. She quite lacked the luscious curves of the vivacious Magnolia back at the Third Rail (whom many men, including Kent himself, inwardly pined for), but she made up for it in the strength of her jaw and the determination of her piercing teal irises, despite the fatigued bags plaguing their bottoms. And then there was the Vault suit, clinging to every feature of her limber bodice. Kent's focus became the number stitched between her shoulders - '111' - as their conversation continued without him being noticed.  
  
Irma, lounging on her chair, cut loose a womanly warble. "Oh, _you_. Amari's downstairs, you big flirt."  
  
Nick and the stranger exchanged a glance before the detective strode past her, leaving her behind in the wake of his billowing trench coat. The smile cast upon his features almost foretold the quirked eyebrow his travel companion tossed his way, smirking casually and taunting, "Big flirt, _indeed_. Guess I'm not the only lady to be swayed by your charm."  
  
Kent ventured from his hidey-hole to catch their speech as they marched towards the stairs. Irma was gazing after them, chuckling into her hand.  
  
"Says the dame who honeyed her way through Skinny Malone's lackeys," Nick poked back.  
  
"Saved the bullets, didn't it?"  
  
"Yep. At the expense of their broken hearts."  
  
She flashed him a grin, glanced back at Irma (who'd turned her head at just the right moment) then to the back of Valentine's retreating head. "So wait ... does that mean you two - I mean I didn't even think you _could_ but, you know, I'm glad ya got the motor running - "  
  
"I - what are you - _wait_ , **_what_**?! Lord no! You - _jeez_ \- ya'd make an old bot blush if I'd had _blood_." The woman opened her mouth to speak again. He quickly jabbed a metal finger her way. " _No_." She cackled. "Gosh - that whole bit - it's a running gag - "  
  
Without missing a beat, the stranger's eyes lit up and her proud, wry grin pushed through. " ** _It_** is, huh?"  
  
"It - " Nick stopped, mouth set into a thin, rigid, firm line. " _Har har_ ," he deadpanned. "If I'd known your mind was a gutter, I should have worn galoshes."  
  
"You might invest in a HazMat suit, too."

Nick's glowing oculars shifted skyward with an old-man huff. "Shoulda just left me in Park Street station."  
  
"And let you miss a colorful conversation like this?"  
  
"I think I'd miss Darla's _bat_ to my _noggin'_ more."  
  
"Soooo BDSM is more your thing."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You know ... sticks and stones may break my bones but whips and chains - "  
  
" _Nora_."  
  
Irma ruptured into a sharp barking laughter. Nick Valentine covered his face with his fleshy hand. And Nora, as Kent learned her name was, walked towards him to comfortingly pet his shoulder.

"Don't worry, Nick," she whispered. "You've entered my comfort zone. It's only gonna get worse from here."

___________  
  
_"What's shaking, Kent?"  
  
"Leroy! I h-haven't heard from ya in a while! What hap-happened to ya?"  
  
There was a long, shuddering breath on the other end. His brother's voice was low. Sorrowful. "It's been a long couple o' weeks, little Rhett. It's been ... " Silence. A slow exhalation. "It's been bad. It's gettin' worse."  
  
Kent spun with the phone in hand. The curled chord wrapped around his torso. "Shroud? Wh-what's goin' on?"  
  
"It's - I dunno if Mom told ya, boyo, but we - uh - we had ta bury one of our own."  
  
"Did the Ice Pick get 'im?"  
  
"I, uh ... well, yeah. I guess. I mean, no. No, the Ice Pick didn't - "  
  
"Leroy?"  
  
"Our Assistant Chief, Kent. She got shot. Killed off by some mobster **dick** , that no good mother **fuckin** ' - "  
  
"H-hey, watch yer mouth."  
  
"I'm ... I'm sorry. Look, shi - stuff's gettin' real bad down here. But uh ... I just want ya to know I ain't forgotten 'bout ya. I'm gonna see ya again real soon, okay? Give Mom kisses."  
  
"Okay ... G'night, Shroud."  
  
"G'night, Rhett."_  
  
____________  
  
Nick Valentine and the Vault-dweller, Nora, had been downstairs in the lab for ... a while. An hour. Maybe two. It was kind of hard to tell when all the analog clocks stopped working 200 years ago. Kent poked and prodded Irma for information, but the woman did little more than shrug her shoulders. She was in the dark. They both were.  
  
He'd made attempts to slip downstairs and see what was going on, managing a glimpse of both visitors in memory pods before Amari shooed him away.  
  
So he retreated upstairs. Back to his room. Back to the broadcasts. Back to the memories. Leroy and him, standing on the beach ... plucking horseshoe crabs from the sand long before they became human-hungry monsters, declaring them henchmen for the Shroud cause. Mom's homemade cooking ... crab stew ... That one memorable time they'd gotten an autograph from _The Unstoppables_ creator on a first-edition comic that was lost a long time ago to the nuclear shockwave of total annihilation. He'd tried looking for it once, only to find ashes. Incinerated, probably.  
  
Just like the Silver Shroud.

Just like Leroy.  
  
"Valentine?" Irma's concern broke through his solitary reverie. Kent peeked past his door again. "Are you feeling well?"  
  
The synth detective hobbled his way from the stairwell. Each step was uneasy. A fog settled upon his features. Metal fingers clasped the back of his skull, as if to massage a headache. There was confusion in the fine lines of his mature face. And a clear upset in his equilibrium. Irma shot up when Nick stumbled, but it was Kent who was quick enough to sprint to his side and catch him.  
  
Nick's thin frame was deceptive. He was heavier than he looked - likely owing to the steel beams and bolts connecting his skeleton. Tucking himself beneath his left shoulder, the ghoul lead him to a sofa. "Mister Valentine?" he asked cautiously. "Are you gonna be okay?"  
  
Baleful yellow orbs locked onto him. And there they sat for entirely too long. Was he lost? Maybe trying to remember Kent? _Had he forgotten_? Relief swept in when the old buzzard cracked a smile so strained that it tugged too much on his frayed skin.  
  
"Kid," murmured Nick. "How've ya been?"  
  
"Better than you." He sat the detective down and loomed like a mother hen. "D'ya wanna go see KL-E-O? She can run some diagnostics on ya the Mechanist might be jealous of."  
  
He appeared to consider this, but after a few moments of thought Valentine shook his head and lowered his fedora to cover his eyes. "Nah, I'll ... I'll be okay. Thanks for your concern, Kent. I'm gonna wait for Nora."  
  
"D-do ya need anything?"  
  
"As a matter of fact ... " And he dug into the trench coat to procure a pack of cigarettes. Flashing a reassuring smile to the ghoul, Kent backed away. He watched from a distance as the synth, in his haze, fumbled with his gold-plated lighter. Only when his metallic body went lax at the intake of smoke did Kent relent to sit beside Irma.  
  
And then he sat by himself as Irma retired for lunch.  
  
Some twenty minutes passed before Nora ascended from the laboratory, looking no better than Nick Valentine (in fact, she was in _worse_ condition. Kent didn't know human eyes could get so dark and baggy. She was akin to a corpse.) The woman blinked, her vision adjusting. When she at last saw Nick, her wobbly strides dragged her forth.  
  
"Nick," she breathed.  
  
They were a couple of folks waking from some kind of unsettling dream, approaching each other from the fog - except Nick's head made an involuntary, entirely-too-spasmodic _twitch_ when he stood. He leaned back, leaned forward, and finally lurched towards his companion. Too ungainly. Too fast. Too ... _uncharacteristic_. Like he was drunk. Drunk with a vendetta.  
  
An _angry_ vendetta. "Hope you found what you were looking for inside my head," Nick purred, his voice the shaded echo of some pre-recorded electronic. Raspy but young. Dark. Some kind of vile fiend. Nora drew back immediately. Her hand fell to the axe head at her side, then fluttered past it.  
  
Fear clung to Kent. He pushed himself into the padded cushion of the lounge chair, utterly terrified and intent on making himself as small as humanly possible. If he tried hard enough, maybe he could become one with the furniture.  
  
Nick's hands flippantly combed over his jacket, steely fingers clenching and unclenching as they dove into the folds and pockets for something not readily available. A callous kind of chuckle bounced through his voice modulator, spurring Kent to swallow heavily and Nora to crash into the nearest memory pod.  
  
"Nickknack?" She was practically arching herself backwards over the glass dome with each loping step Valentine took. Sweat was breaking out on her forehead. Her whole body trembled like a branch in Rad Storm winds. "Nick? Hey - c'mon - this shit's not funny - "

"Hnnhh, it's not meant to _be_ funny," grumbled Not-Nick.

He was a foot away before Nora realized there was more to the room than where she was standing. Her attempts to sprint away, however, were cut short when Nick's robotic arm snatched her by the shoulder and all but threw her against the pod. The glass cracked. His claws worked their way from her bicep to her throat, the sharp thumb tracing along her trachea and digging just slightly, just enough to make an impression ...  
  
"I was right." His fleshy hand found what it was looking for and a sardonic smile stretched Nick's mouth wide. Beneath the subtle lump of his jacket, Not-Nick discovered a rusty pipe pistol. Nora froze solid.  
  
"Hey Valentine ... ," she began to plead.  
  
"I shoulda killed you while you were on ice."  
  
Barrel against her temple. Hammer cocking back. Kent whimpered, covered his mouth, and buried himself deeper and deeper into the sofa. The mottled auburn of his skin became one with the crimson fabric. Eyes slammed shut. Trying to silence the sound of his breathing but unable to muffle the shocked gasps bleating through the cracks between his fingers.  
  
_Coward, you're such a damn coward, you could never be the Shroud.  
  
Ya don't got a set, ya retard. Why don'cha just kill yourself, hunh?  
  
Take yer stu-stu-stu-stuttering stupid ass to that cliff and jump the fuck off._

Faces circulating around him. Mouths jeering, eyes leering. Spitting. Laughing. Taunting. _No longer under the protection of his now-absent brother, the town was able to cut loose on him. The warm facade melted into a vat of acid, eager to burn him alive -_  
  
Something heavy clattered to the ground. Then ... a very slow, very terrified ... "Doll?"  
  
Nick's actual voice was preened from the maw formerly possessed by somebody else. Kent allowed himself to crack open one eye to see that Nora had assumed something of a similar position o submission - eyes closed, head leaning to the side, limbs lax ... scared out of her mind but unwilling to fight it.  
  
And Nick ... he took one look at her face, at his hand on her throat, at the gun dropped carelessly on the floor (and that, by some miracle, had not gone off) ... and his expression quickly devolved from maliciousness, to bafflement, to unyielding horror. Immediately he peeled away. Valentine backpedaled across the room. He lost his footing and fell on his rump. Rather than stand again, Nick remained there - eyes transfixed to the woman he'd come so close to murdering in cold blood.  
  
Nora didn't allow herself the pleasure of relaxing straight away. Her figure slowly detached from the pod, but she remained alert and tense. She and Nick were locked into a staring contest - both bewildered but only one afraid to the point of shaking and sweating. She swallowed. Or tried to, several times, but in her state the saliva had all dried up.  
  
Kent watched Nick look away first. He fumbled with his coat and Nora immediately tensed (to which Nick's face transfigured to one of visible hurt). Only as the synth grabbed a cigarette to drop it on the floor with fumbling digits did the ghoul realize the detective was shivering, too.  
  
The lighter was mocking him. Five flicks of flint later and it still would not light. Not that it would have mattered. The cancer stick had fallen from his lips after the second strike. "Doll - _Nora_ \- I'm - ah - _shit_ \- "  
  
Without warning, Nora dropped to her knees. She attempted to slow her hyperventilating with deep, controlled breaths. "Nick ... ?"  
  
"Amari mentioned there'd be ... _mnemonic_ impressions and whatnot, but ... _Jesus_ , I'm sorry - I'm so, so sorry - "  
  
He wasn't allowed to finish the train of thought. In the span of a heartbeat, Nora cleared the space between them. Kent didn't know if he was expecting her to sock him in the nose or shoot him in the head, but the ghoul was fairly certain that her life-crushing _hug_ wasn't on the list of possibilities. Nick didn't seem to think so, either. His arms splayed out to his sides, startled and surprised and not-quite-comfortable-but-not-exactly-fighting-it-either. He was comically rigid, and she was determinedly oblivious.  
  
"Nick ... it's you, right? It's you in there?" she asked in a voice barely above a whisper.  
  
"Yeah, Doll." His barely-human palm slowly settled between her shoulder blades. "It's me."  
  
"Then ... shut up and let me hug you 'till your lungs stop working."  
  
"I don't need to breath, sweetheart."  
  
If she heard him, she didn't let on.  
  
____________  
  
  
_"Kent?"  
  
"H-hey, Leroy. What's goin' on?"  
  
"Is Mom with you?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Good, good." A ragged sigh tapering after hasty words. "Look, this is important. Ya gotta listen to me. You **are** listenin', right?" Livid anxiety clung to every word.  
  
Instantly, Kent was afraid. "Yeah, I'm - wh-wh-what's happenin'? Are you okay?"  
  
"Kent - listen real close, okay? I want you to take Mom and get as far away from the cities as ya can, okay? Get on a ferry or - **shit** \- just somewhere where ya can ride this out. The woods if ya gotta. Fucking **Vault-Tec** didn't build no **goddamned** Vaults out there - "  
  
"Leroy, langu - "  
  
"Kent! Listen ... they're bombin' us, bro. Nukes are comin'. They're on the way. You gotta ... "  
  
"Nukes?"  
  
"Oh ... oh shit ... Kent? You there?"  
  
"I'm ... I'm here."  
  
"It's too late ... it's too late and - I love you, bro. I love you and Mom lots. You both gotta ge - "  
  
Dead lines. An explosion of light and sound ... _

And 200 years later, he sat next to the phone, hoping it would ring again.


	2. The Tolling of the Bell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, sorry for the delay, folks! The holiday seasons are upon us, and thus everything has been a little crazy. Lot of calls. Lot of work. Lot of family matters. It's been hell on wheels.
> 
> Next chapter MAY be done before New Years. I'm gonna try! And to everybody, Merry Christmas!

They'd only an allotted time for their awkward embrace. Nora's face burrowed into the depths of Nick's blouse-covered chest, and in that time she'd learned to assign several distinct scents and sounds to his presence: gunmetal and earth; fresh tobacco and smoldering smoke; the mildew of worn leather; a muted whine of servos; the gentle _whump-whump_ of his heart-like coolant pump that was running just a little faster than she thought it might have normally.  
  
He hadn't protested her roping arms. And though Nick hadn't exactly _relaxed_ in that position, his stiff limbs eased, just so, in their rigidity. She was the only one breathing. Rapid breaths nulled into the slow and steady sort, coming down from their fearful jog to a less terrified walk.  
  
Amari's footsteps attacking the basement staircase made Nora reflexively jerk away. Nick's hand, settled on the small of her back, withdrew sluggishly. Something like reluctance danced across the shadows of his polymer lips, the concaves of his cheeks and eye sockets ... then swallowed by the very apparent and heart-felt guilt that forced his auburn orbs to switch away, chin downward, mouth set into a frown.  
  
Slowly, he stood. Aged metal joints creaked from the motion. Metal phalanges of his right hand reached out, hovered, then _whipped back_ in place for the fingers of his fleshy palm. Alabaster-painted teeth bared themselves in a forced, weak smile. _Like shame_. Nora's heart throbbed.  
  
"Doll," he offered.  
  
Considering the circumstances, Nora ought've lingered a little too long or paused at the notion. _Nick had just tried to kill her_ , except it wasn't Nick ... it'd been Kellogg, the temporary (she hoped) ghost in the shell. _This_ , the one standing in front of her? That was Nick. Nick Valentine. Her friend. Her ... She snatched up his gentlemanly manners and used them to pull herself upwards.  
  
Eye-level. Again. For a split second, maybe, before he could not longer look at her. "You should go an' have a look around Goodneighbor." His voice was oddly melancholy. Detached. And suddenly he was peering over her shoulder. Probably at Amari ... maybe at that ghoul who'd hidden himself in the sofa (and a surge of horrible feelings and last night's dinner plagued her esophagus). "There's plenty to be seen around here. Third Rail's the talk of the town. And the ... Hotel Rexford might be worth a gander." Now he glimpsed her way with adamant concern. "You'd need some rest after ... "  
  
_After today? After last night? How about after everything?_ Her nap in the apartment complex lasted little more than forty-five minutes, at most. She'd tried to force herself back into a blissful coma, but it was like all the other attempts: riddled with night terrors that left her gasping and gulping until Nick reminded her they were safe. There were four attempts. Then she surrendered to insomnia, lay on her back with arms folded over her chest and eyes wistfully staring, and talked with Nick about philosophical bullshit until the rain stopped and the sun rose.  
  
A normal human could live with one or two nights like that, but this was a common occurrence. Ever since she awoke from Vault 111. Ever since trekking to that forbidden Fort Hagen and watching Kellogg draw his last breath.  
  
His last _physical_ breath, at least.  
  
"What about you, Nick?"  
  
"This old bot - " Nora cringed at the self-deprecation - "needs a check-up, I think." He sighed. Faded shoes stepped towards and past her. They stopped when they were shoulder to shoulder. "You'll need to find yourself a HazMat suit before you try goin' off to th' Glowing Sea. That radiation'll leave you with a finely lit skin complexion ... Dogs don't take too well to being irradiated, either." She thought of the mutant hounds patrolling the sides of super mutants, or the hairless mutts that attacked them on the roads. "But I don't want ya going out there by your lonesome. Bring somebody. Just ... "  
  
She couldn't guess the depth of remorse in his voice. It might have rivaled the Marianas Trench.  
  
"Make sure you see me before ya leave."  
  
Nick strode past her without a word.  
  
In one moment, he engaged Doctor Amari in conversation. In the next, he was following her to the Memory Den's back end. The goofy-looking ghoul was trail after them.  
  
When she blinked the last time, Nora watched the tail end of Nick's tattered coat as it disappeared around the corner and out of sight.  
  
____________________  
  
  
"W-where are we going?" Jenny whispered. She was scared out of her little mind and it resounded in her tiny voice.  
  
I led her down the hallway in silent, creeping steps. This whole thing would go downhill really fast if her father woke up. "Away," I answered, tightening my grip on her puny hand. Our only illumination was from the blaring television, casting flares of whitish light through the living room door.  
  
She tried to inquire again. I silenced the cusp of her words with a finger against her lips and a ' _shhh_ '.  
  
He was snorting in that recliner. Great lungfuls of air billowed past the huge gap left behind by parted jaws. An odor like sour milk emanated from somewhere on his body. It was pungent enough to make me pinch my nose when passing behind his chair. Why hadn't I noticed it before?

With only a foot between us and the apartment's door, a sharp edge of panic dug into the heels of Jenny's feet. "We can't leave," she protested suddenly.  
  
"Jenny - "  
  
"He'll be so _angry_ and - and - " Her words were rising in octave, pitching into a hysterical whine. "When he g-gets mad he'll get real _loud_ and then - "  
  
The recliner shook.  
  
Without thinking, I thrust Jenny behind me and clamped my hand atop her quivering lips.  
  
Her dad ... had stopped snoring. Was sitting straight up. I could hear his breathing becoming steady ... could see his head turning, ever slowly, our way ... I backed up, pulling Jenny with me, hoping beyond hope that the room's corners would be dark enough to conceal us from his prying, glassy -  
  
Wait a second.  
  
_Glassy_ eyes.  
  
There were times, back at home, when Mom would wake Dad from a dead sleep. His eyelids would open but his sight was elsewhere, vision hidden behind a cascade of blank irises. Mom called him a zombie those moments, because he would respond to her questions and nod his head in agreement, but wouldn't actually remember anything that was said or done because _he wasn't actually awake_. It was always funny to me and I'd laugh at him.  
  
And here, now ... I was seeing those same sort of eyes all over again. Her dad was watching us. _Really_ watching us. They were locked on target with nowhere to go, tracing our movements ... but his mouth remained stoic and his expression unsurprised and ... and a second later, he'd leaned back into the recliner, snapped open the footrest, and was back to sawing logs.  
  
I didn't waste any time. My hand was twisting the door knob and propelling us out before he could complete a second round of grunts. Not until I heard the bolt click in place did I dare ease my breathing. And you could bet your ass that I didn't unveil Jenny's whimpering mouth until we were down the hall a good ways.  
  
"Jeez, Jenny," I sighed. She was gasping. Hyperventilating. I went to rubbing between her shoulders. "Hey - hey, calm down."  
  
There were hints of tears blossoming at the corners of her eyes. . Her rapid sniffing and reddening face were tattletells of what was gonna come next. "He - he's gonna - he's guh-gonna be so _mad_ \- "  
  
Giving her arm a good tug, I gave her my best happy smile and wink. "That's why we're not gonna be here when he wakes up."  
  
That did appear to chipper her. Just a little. Enough to quell her hiccups. "Nor ... where'll we go?"  
  
My smile become a full-fledged grin. "We're gonna go visit Pops."  
  
"But it's bed time ... "  
  
"Oh no. He's at work. I betcha he's wide awake."  
  
_____________  
  
Have a look around Goodneighbor, he said.  
  
It'll be fun, he said. _I redact that. He didn't **actually** tell me to have fun._ Nick's words rang in her head, his actions haunting her sore neck. His grip had been light enough - no imminent bruising, at least. But the concept of what'd just gone on and the breath of death pressing hard against her face was enough to jar awake any nagging desire to sleep.  
  
So Nora strolled out the door, idly rubbing the indentations where carotid arteries hid. She slipped by the merchants to browse their wares. KLE-O brought the faintest smile to her face, the assaultron's crude flirting highly unfitting but strangely welcome and amusing.  
  
But it was Daisy that brought the edge off. Nora announcing her age was met with a fair amount of cynicism ... until their conversation swirled into the whirlpool of reminiscence and what-used-to-bes. Shared laughter. Complaints and praises of pre-war Boston. A promise of meeting for a drink later. And that was that. Nora left the shop feeling ... refreshed, for a change. It was enough to stave the pending dread of what was to come at least long enough for her to crawl up the Hotel Rexford stairs. Meeting the Vault-Tec rep after a 200 year road trip of radiation and disfigurement brought the wave crashing back down.

The remorse started in her stomach, snarled at her throat. She swallowed it back down with a heaping spoonful of empathy and remorse. Inviting Jay Livingston, former employee of the same corporation that left him for dead and Nora in a freezer, to rebuild his unlife under the roofs of Sanctuary Hills may have removed the burn from her simmering hurt, but it did little to sooth her bleating chest.  
  
And with Dogmeat shadowing him for a safe journey, Nora felt horrible, tangible loneliness creep into the blackness of her mind.  
  
_________________  
  
Clanging pots and whirring motors sang a homely tune between her ears. Warm sunlight alighting on her cheeks drove lead from her eyelids. Freshly brewed coffee, strong and nostril-burning - 100% rainforest Colombian, a rare blend after the Quarantine snuffed the supply. Sizzling bacon. Chirping birds and humming cars and, "Howdy doo, neighbor!"  
  
_Her father in the kitchen, beaming at her above the paper. "Ready for breakfast with the crew, beansprout?"_  
  
"Breakfast is served, sir!" Codsworth announced proudly several rooms over. "I'll retrieve young Shaun. Shall I wake Mum as well?"  
  
"No need, Codsbot. I'll get her." Footsteps - soft, almost, but heavy nonetheless. A presence in the room disturbed air flow. Nora could feel it drop close to her head. Hot air spilled onto her eyes. "Hey babe, ready for grub?"  
  
"Mmmmphhh," she mumbled into the pillow.

Nate touched her shoulder and gave her a little shake. "Codsworth made bacon and eggs."  
  
"Ffffive more minutes?"  
  
The fingers fell away and a horrible chill took their place. Somewhere far away she could hear a baby crying, loud at first then dissipating. Nora rolled onto her side, forcing her eyes open. They were heavier now than they were a moment ago, and the light wasn't so warm as it was harsh and unwelcome. She blinked, squinting hard. "Nate?"  
  
It was a horribly familiar, wretchedly empty sensation waking up alone in bed. So many times it had been Codsworth cheering her into a morning routine with a babbling Shaun cradled in the nook of his robotic appendage. Not her husband. Not Nate. Not towards the end.  
  
But here there was no Codsworth's chipper vocalizer. No Shaun's baby squirms and coos. Just a wall of cracked concrete and exposed rebar, moth-eaten bed sheets, stains on the floor that couldn't be anything but old blood -  
  
If the bombs hadn't dropped, Nora imagined this would be the perfect metaphor of what her life had become before the war. It certainly fit the bill after the world actually ended.  
  
___________  
  
"Aren't you scared?"  
  
"Of what?"  
  
Jenny gestured to the darkened road and sidewalk, dimly illuminated by the grungy streetlights. "It's late. There are ... _bad_ people, aren't there?" The shorter girl was clinging to Nora's arm as they traversed their way across the sleeping city blocks. Her absolute horror from the apartment tapered into a calmer, quieter fear. Nora likened it to when a person afraid of drowning was tossed into a pond to find themselves floating instead of sinking. "What if they - what if a bad guy comes out? You and me, we're little and - "  
  
"The Silver Shroud won't let her friends get hurt," Nora spoke in a baritone mimicry. Her youthful voice could not adapt well and crackled several times. "C'mon, Jenjen - they're just _people_. And it's not real different from day time."  
  
Twenty years later, Boston's midnight streets would sing a different tune.  
  
"How do you know?" The tall blond gave her comrade a coy look. Jenny sighed with humored exasperation. "You went out at night before, didn't you?"  
  
"Once or twice," Nora admitted with a shrug. "Couldn't sleep. Went to visit Pops. Mom freaked, though. Got grounded for the weekend ... She was kinda cool with the next time. 'Course, I left a note."  
  
"Did you leave one this time?"  
  
Nimble fingers scratched the part in her hair. "I - ah - I forgot."  
  
" _Nora_!"  
  
"Whaaaaaaat? Dad'll take care of it." Interlacing her fingers with Jenny and giving the shy girl a sharp tug, Nora pointed to a large brick building in the distance. The many windows on its second and third floors held a lonely blackness, but the vast ocean of luminescence pouring from the bay doors' panes cast an eerie shimmer upon the street's black asphalt.  
  
Boston Fire held twelve substations positioned around Boston and her outside districts. Both were respectable and immense in their own right, but nothing could conquer Station 1's sheer magnitude.  
  
It awaited them - a beacon in the unseemly quiet city night.

____________

Drinking away the bitter memories never did much to quell their ghostly chatter, but it did fill her belly with a fiery warmth that, on better days, would lull her to sleep.  
  
She took up residence on a moth-eaten recliner as one of the many vacant-eyed lost souls littering the Third Rail. A Mister Handy that spoke with a cockney accent. A few prospectors cashing in on rumors of old-world treasure, a rather haggard ghoul with enough muscle to call himself a merc ...  
  
With her newly-purchased hand-me-down apparel, Nora blended in well enough to sink into the soft cushions as nothing more than a white-colored stain. The whiskey was hard, impure. She was sure it'd melt a hole in her stomach before the liver could go to work detoxing her blood. But you get what you pay for ... At least Magnolia's voice was easy on the ears. That voluptuous canary provided and unhealthy backdrop against closed eyes - _she could see an old kitchen, audio reverberating from the radio mounted on still-clean counters. Codsworth troubling himself over brewing another pot of coffee. Shaun's quiet giggles as she cradled him in her arms - her only reasons for being anymore, and yet they couldn't flatten the engorged lump fastening to her heart.  
  
The sun's yellow embers blistering over pre-dawn's horizon ... splitting into two and getting larger, closer, **hotter** until heat crushed her airway, white sparks twisting into a sneer surfing the currents of a raspy man's voice, "Shoulda killed you when I had the chance - "  
  
_ Nora wasn't sure if it was the nightmare that jostled her or the commotion from one of the back rooms, well out of sight. Magnolia halted her singing. White Chapel Charlie shouted something indistinguishable and the ghoul bouncer bounded his way to the havoc's source. A moment later and two burly men were getting manhandled, shoved, and hollered out until their leather-clad bodies jerked away and heaved themselves up the stairs.  
  
A third man rounded the corner. He was young, Nora thought, or young- _looking_. Every bit of his demeanor reminded her of a mouse ... or a junkyard dog. Maybe a shepherd. Tousled brown hair with a bad case of bedhead (visible for only a moment before his head was fitted with a bullet-laden cap). A rather well-groomed goatee adorned his chin, sea-blue irises fitting oddly well along his sun-kissed face. He was built like a twig and Nora immediately envied his coat.  
  
One of the jackasses being nagged up the stairs paused to point his forefinger and thumb in the shape of gun at the mousey newcomer. "Don't _fuck_ with us, Mac," he snarled. "Yer gettin' an easy warning now. But we see ya again - an' I promise, it's gunna be yer _head_ \- "  
  
Ham withdrew a pistol to shut them up and the unsavory two scattered like cockroaches.  
  
"All talk until you draw on them," Mac taunted, allowing his shoulders to shrug cartoonishly. "Point a gun at 'em and they scatter like a bunch of bitc - _hnnhh_ \- pansies."  
  
The ghoul bouncer strolled to the man's side and roughly jerked the worn lapels of his jacket. "You best keep that riffraff the hell outta here, MacCready," warned Ham, his voice barely above a whisper. "Or you're outta Goodneighbor, am I clear?"  
  
"Crystal."  
  
An unsettling silence fell over the bar as Ham ascended the stairs to return to his post. MacCready jammed his hands into his pockets, glancing about awkwardly. He met Nora's gaze once or twice, eyebrows raising after their third connection. Just when she thought the atmospheric tension was getting thick enough to cut, Charlie held up a bottle and belted, "Well, what the hell ya wankers waitin' on? You got the caps, we got the booze and the tunes! Magnolia, you pretty bird, if ya would ... ?"  
  
With a twitch of her plump lips and a twist of her wide hips, the woman in red ran her fingers along the microphone in a way that could only be described as sensual. The subtlety in her actions was enough to draw most of the male crowd's attention. Minus MacCready. He'd gathered a too-large glass of cloudy vodka (again, impure) and dropped on the couch across from Nora.  
  
After several long gulps, he squared off with her and leaned forward on his knee. "So what rock did this pretty little thing crawl out from under?"  
  
Nora blinked. "What, cuz you've 'never seen me around here before'?"  
  
"Naw. Because you look like you've never seen sunlight a day in your life."  
  
She snorted into her whiskey, gracing MacCready with a middle finger. "Oh ho!" she exclaimed, fireflies tickling her stomach. "Lookit this, the manchild's got jokes! That your way of picking up ladies? 'Cause it was way off."  
  
"Got you to smile, didn't I?" winked the stranger. Nora shook her head, unable to counter his point. "So what's your story?"  
  
"A lovely ballad written 200 years ago."  
  
"I ... I don't get it."  
  
Nora squinted an eye at him and grinned. "That's because you're a manchild." He was somewhere between flustered and amused, though the profound redness in his face suggested a strong lean towards the former. She eased up on him with a wam, "What's your name?"  
  
He huffed. "MacCready."  
  
"Just MacCready?"  
  
"Just MacCready."  
  
"Then I'm just Nora." She motioned towards the back room with a flick of her whiskey glass, the reserves now too low to slosh about. "So what was that all about, Just MacCready?"  
  
He frowned. "That's a _man's_ business," he rumbled.  
  
"A man?" Befuddlement captivated her features. Wide-eyed and curious, Nora glanced here and there, behind the recliner, at the ceiling ... all while maintaining her bewildered composure. "A man? I don't see a man anywhere, do you?"  
  
She thought she'd struck a tender spot. For just a moment. Then his eyes closed and his mouth swirled into a dim, but visible, smile. "Har har," he toted, and drank.  
  
___________  
  
  
Losing track of time was easy. She wished it was just as easy to let her mind slip away.  
  
For every empty glass was another waiting to be swallowed. The alcohol came in droves - one right after the other. Small glasses. Large shots. Whiskey. Rum. Gin. Gin and tonic. Rum and Nuka-Cola. Vodka. They would break on purified water to collect their senses and quench their parched gullets, then resume drowning in intoxication.  
  
By the the time Nora got up to use the bathroom, she could no longer feel the floor. MacCready's reflexes, at least, weren't completely gone. He'd caught her by the waist and hoisted her upright, and there his grip lingered a little too long, his face a little too close and his breath a little too warm. A wave of heated nausea consumed her stomach. Nora squirmed away, lurching for the commode - and she was glad the scruffy merc was too drunk to realize his oblivious error. He wobbled like a zombie, swiveled back to his bar stool and proceeded to trip into the counter. She could hear White Chapel Charlie's irritated scolding through the halls.  
  
One hour became two became three, day fell to night, and the Third Rail's crowd got bigger. Among the sea of faces, not one of them was Nick. Thick, syrupy guilt overcame her common sense. A new breed of social anxiety commanded her nerves. Claustrophobia. Oxygen in the air was too thin, the heat balmy. Sweat broke out on her forehead, prickled the back of her neck.  
  
When Hancock made his debut with Daisy on one arm and Fahrenheit in the other, Nora made her escape into the Goodneighbor night.  
  
It was crisp. Cold. November was coming to an end. December was just around the corner. That meant winds that bit through the warmest clothes, flurries to pain decades-old ruins under a blanket of white, sheets of ice forming where puddles once lay. The Swan would probably be driven from its refuge to seek a warmer sanctuary. She had no idea how super mutants handled the season.  
  
Neon lights and cigarette smoke slung past her. A blur of motion. Her feet made impact with the asphalt - and she could only tell because of the sound, and the jarring sensation of her body when heels struck tar. Familiar nostalgia of Boston at night ... back when the nocturnal life didn't consist of monsters lurking in shadows, fangs bared and claws flexing ...  
  
_She'd dragged herself across the city blocks to find the place. It was a good two hour hike from where she'd parked the car. Refreshing. A little bit of healthy exercise, or at least that's what she told herself. Truthfully it did little to clear the fog in her brain, but it gave her plenty enough time to mull over where she was, what she was doing, who she was going to see.  
  
Jenny worked hard over the years to save for this place - a little two bedroom, one story house in the middle of downtown Boston. Not exactly in a safe location but it was close to the station's main hub. Not much of a looker, either, but the woman brightened it with her heavy imagination and endless resources. Lanterns were strung up to brighten the dark places. Colorful plants filled the puny ten-by-ten square foot lawn. Decorations adorned the windows for every time of the year.  
  
Nora had been in there three times since moving back to Boston. The rooms were decorated with unique firehouse-esque flavors, including an end table that utilized an old hydrant as it's base. Not an empty space in the house - she believed in keeping everything 'full feeling' ... save for the spare bedroom. Devoid of anything. Jenny'd kept it that way in anticipation of a future where she had a child - a dream shared by her soon-to-be husband.  
  
It was a vibrant addition to Boston. Once. Now it was dark. A depressing stillness lingered where music used to play. No lights on, save for one. Inside. In the kitchen. And though two cars parked in the driveway, only one of them was exempt from dust.  
  
_ Ice crawled into Nora's skin. It seeped into her spine, ushered her to move faster. Tunnel vision. Hard breaths.  
  
_Two weeks ago, they buried her.  
  
One week ago, Operation Winter's End disbanded.  
  
And now? Here she was. Standing outside Jenny's house with a six-pack of some pisswater beer. One lonely soul seeking the companionship of another, both licking wounds too deep to heal on their own. Her only option, really. She couldn't go home - why would she want to torment herself? Shaun was with Codsworth, and Codsworth was with Scarlet - another firefighter currently suspended for brawling with one of Winter's goons in public (though quietly the chief congratulated her for kicking the guy's ass.)  
  
Nate was ... somewhere.  
  
Probably in that **bitch's** bed.  
  
Nora sucked in a breath. She'd met Valentine but once before the funeral and immediately took a liking to his charming, witty personality. How proud she had been of Jenny! He was friendly back then. Grinning despite the worry lines, laughing through lack of sleep. But now?  
  
They needed this, she thought. Knock back some drinks. Share some stories of their mutual connection: Nora's 'sister', Nick's love. Reminisce. Laugh. Drink some more. Pains would heal. Hurts would become less hurtful.  
  
She raised her hand, sucked in a deep breath_ -  
  
\- and froze.  
  
Outside The Memory Den, fist poised to knock, Nora felt a myriad of emotions come on far stronger than they ought to have. Fear. Humiliation. Self-loathing. Sadness. A fleeting source of courage made her appendage shake with resolution, but self-control immediately withdrew power from her digits. Fingers relaxed. Fist - no - _hand_ lowered. Fire raced up her back and was forced back down.  
  
_What was she doing? She knew this would end badly. Two humans seeking comfort from each other was one thing, but this ... this was complicated. One thing could (and probably would) lead to another. Mistakes. Regret. Wounds to become scars. Potential friendships falling to ruin._

 _Nora left the beer on Jenny's front porch. It would be gone in the morning - if not by Valentine, then by some street urchin grabby for a free drink.  
  
And then ... she vanished into the night of creams, crying babies, distant sirens ...  
  
Nora got about five blocks before the Fire Chief's squad car found her, picked her up, and took her home.  
  
_ _________  
  
She didn't go back to the Third Rail. Didn't even retreat to her rented bedroom at the Hotel Rexford.  
  
Instead she walked a little too quickly - past the roving shadows between shady alleys and tommygun-toting guards dressed in fine suits - towards Goodneighbor's entrance. She knew it was a bad idea, what with her current state being a little less than sound mind and her footsteps coming a little uneven, her body teetering more than might be considered normal. But staying here ... was ...  
  
Faneuil Hall was a big no-no. Nick and her cased the place before slinking into the guarded city of ghouls. Super mutants were all over the place. Get too close, and one of their hounds were bound to sniff you out and dictate your location to their masters. And anywhere _around_ the Hall was also dangerous. Nora couldn't count on one hand how many ferals they dispatched just to get here.  
  
Graced by the latter fact, however, Nora's journey into the twilight was actually blessed with very little trouble. Perhaps a stray mongrel or too, looking for a quick meal from a desperate survivor's corpse ... but the ferals were slim to none. Had they really cleared through the area with that extensive of a kill streak? Nora was glad - glad Nick had been so quick with a gun. Glad he'd given her some tips on how to shoot properly between Goodneighbor and Cambridge. Glad she had enough experience with an axe to be considered a professional.  
  
_Nick raised an eyeridge as Nora heaved free her weapon from a feral's skull. "Never took you for a lumberjack."  
  
"You find me a 'coon skin hat," she grinned, "and a plaid jacket, and I think we'll be alright."  
  
He laughed.  
  
_ She weaved her way through a bus sunken into an eroded pit that was once a roadway and veered left. Then right. Beyond the collapsed overpass. Between buildings. Where to? Somewhere. Anywhere. Anywhere but here.  
  
The evening was remarkably quiet. Not even littered with a stray bullet, or the hooting of raiders ... So silent you could hear a pin drop. If Nora listened too hard, she could hear a baby crying - ghostly, ethereal, _it's all in my head it's all in my head_.  
  
A HazMat suit ... Nora needed to find a HazMat suit. She hadn't the slightest inclination of where to find one. The idea of seeking her old turnout gear teased her mind here and there, but there'd be no point in it. Their attire, though rated for temperatures above 1,000 degrees, wasn't meant to protect against gamma radiation. And they'd need more weapons. Better weapons. MacCready's sniper rifle was ideal. He could take down targets without getting close to 'em. Convincing him to take up arms alongside her was a different story. Would he have to be bribed? Paid? She might be able to get Nick's help on that before he headed back to Diamond City. He was an expert at milking the truth from somebody -  
  
_Hold up. You're not actually considering leaving him behind, are you?_  
  
Glowing eyes. Kellogg's voice. Nick's coat on her back and a blazing campfire to fight the cold. Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on a dirty floor in an apartment building riddled with suicides. His fingers burrowing into her throat, promising death _not his fingers not his voice_ -  
  
Nora was seeing, but not paying attention. It kicked her in the ass when she tripped on a brick underfoot. Catching dirt with her elbows, she grumbled a harsh, "God _damn_ it," and rubbed her eyes.  
  
At the very least, she landed on something soft. A familiar aroma of burning wood and soot crept up her nostrils, delivered nostalgia in high gear to olfactories. Her Pip-Boy light caught the item in question and her brain seized with recollection at the object's reflective striping. By the time her mind and body caught up with what she was seeing, her heart already dropped into her stomach. The pit where it once thumped became sore and tired.  
  
Boston Fire had black gear, accented with yellow stripes that bounced light at night. Everybody received new sets before the bombs dropped, the department having earned a grant that afforded them both new apparel and much-needed truck repairs. Fast forward into the apocalypse, and they were aged beyond repair. The black faded to a burned purple, exposure evidence of multiple firefights and god knew what else. A lot of things happened in 200 years, after all. The pristine, thick fabric was ripped and torn. Holes were eaten through and through - radroaches, probably, or some kind of mutant moth. The helmet was dented in numerous spots, scratched and dinged with errant bullet holes courtesy of somebody who couldn't aim properly ( _or wanted target practice_ , she thought sadly) and creature scratches ... and dirt, and dust, and some old blood ...  
  
And underneath that helmet ... inside the gear ...

Bones.  
  
The alcohol at last burned a hole in her stomach, and Nora threw up.  
  
__________  


Margo McKelvey, aged 24, was the first skeleton firefighter she found. She had died leaning against the decaying mass of Engine 39. The truck itself was nigh unrecognizable, what with the elements stripping away the colorful letters and numbers once boldly emblazoned on the chasis and rust stripping the bright apple red paint. The tires were blown. Many parts had been stripped, probably to be fashioned into some kind of weapon or used to repair a shelter somewhere. Who knew?  
  
Nora found the remains of Leroy Connolly, aged 22, about 70 feet away. He had a payphone clenched tightly between his fingers when he passed away. One last call ... one last goodbye. Nora wished she had that chance. Lucky bastard.  
  
Sitting on Engine 39's rotting bumper with her elbow resting on the steamer intake, Nora held her forehead, closed her eyes ... Margo was the child of another firefighter that ran calls with Nora when she first joined Boston Fire Department. Eager to follow in her father's stead just like Nora had been, she'd joined when she was old enough to apply. And failed miserably during the first two attempts. That timed physical agility test whupped her ass pretty hard. But she wasn't going to give up, and kept training and training until, by the third try, Margo passed with only a second left on the clock. Hard-headed, foul-tempered, but loyal and tough.  
  
Leroy? He had been forging his way to become a captain when Nora came back onto the department. She worked alongside him frequently in the weeks before Jenny's murder, and grew an immediate fondness for the kid. He was a _flirt_. So much so that it got him in trouble (because having three girlfriends find out they aren't his _only_ girlfriend isn't exactly a party). Charismatic, self-centered, goofy ... Despite their age gap, Leroy consistently tried to put the moves on Nora - and always (through genuine laughter) she'd refuse. It never stopped him. He would step up his game the next day. And the next day. And even though Nora wouldn't have it, she never denied that it made her feel young again.  
  
In their down time when they bullshitted, Leroy talked endlessly about his brother. He was pinching his dimes to get a nice place in the suburbs, determined to get his sibling out in Boston. _"Mom's gettin' ill,"_ he told her in confidence once. _"Leukemia with a side of CHF. She ain't gonna be around for much longer. So she's not gonna be able to take care of him soon, y'know?"_  
  
Leroy would never buy that house. He'd never move his brother into the big, bright city of Boston.  
  
Two fantastic firefighters turned skeletons in the street. At least Jenny had a funeral.  
  
She thought about the procession ... about the firemen and police officers lined on either side of the street with black uniforms and white gloves raised in salute. The fire engine with her casket settled in the hose bed, slowly humming down the road, beneath the extended aerials with American flags descended from their apexes. The Honour Guard at her graveside, tapping that old bell -  
  
_" The men and women of today's fire service are confronted with a more dangerous work environment than ever before,"_ the lead would state to the mourning crowd, his demeanor stalwart even though his heart was breaking, _"We are forced to continually change our strategies and tactics to accomplish our tasks."  
  
_ Nora pushed off from the bumper. Kneeling at each corpse, she rifled through their wallets. Of course they wouldn't be looted. Nowadays nobody knew what a wallet even _was_. Margo had stashed several multi-colored Euros - lucky charms passed on from her mother, who loved to travel overseas before the quarantine was put into effect. In Leroy's wallet were pictures of him, his mother, and his brother. His sibling's facial structure appeared vaguely familiar but unable to be put into context. Nora stuffed both sets of memorabilia into her pockets.  
  
_"Our methods may change, but our goals remain the same as they were in the past, to save lives and to protect property, sometimes at a terrible cost. This is what we do, this is our chosen profession, this is the tradition of the fire fighter."  
  
_ Next she stripped their helmets of their accountability tags - small bronze plates in which their first initials and last names were etched. Those items were meant to be clipped onto a board inside the truck when a firefighter left it to go inside a building or attend an accident scene. When the firefighter returned to the truck, they would reclaim their tags. It was a simple enough system meant to ensure every firefighter was present and safe. Nora had no idea what she would do with them - _yet_ \- but she took them anyway.  
  
_"The fire service of today is ever changing, but is steeped in traditions 300 years old. One such tradition is the sound of a bell."  
  
_ She padded down their turnout coats, hunting, searching ... until at long last she found what she was looking for. A portable radio, one on each body. She had little hope that they would function, considering neither one had been charged since the bombs fell. And who knew how extensive the damage would have been from an EMP? Had there even _been_ an EMP before the nukes? Nora doubted it. After all ... the elevator descending into Vault 111 hadn't grinded to a halt ...  
  
Nora fiddled with Margo's portable. It had been turned on at the time of her death and, ironically, was also dead. Leroy had a habit of not switching his on until he needed it (a lesson learned through habit, as he had a tendency to lean on the 'talk' button and tangle radio traffic and would often get reprimanded). Nora sucked in a breath, turned the switch ... and relieved surprise washed through her when it beeped rapidly five times. _No shit!_  
  
_"In the past, as fire fighters began their tour of duty, it was the bell that signaled the beginning of that day's shift. Throughout the day and night, each alarm was sounded by a bell, which summoned these brave souls to fight fires and to place their lives in jeopardy for the good of their fellow citizen. And when the fire was out and the alarm had come to an end, it was the bell that signaled to all the completion of that call. When a fire fighter had died in the line of duty, paying the supreme sacrifice, it was the mournful toll of the bell that solemnly announced a comrade's passing."  
  
_ She took a long, cautious look around. Cranking the radio on ... might be ill-conceived, considering the possible presence of mutated beasts eager to pounce upon unsuspecting prey. But ... _fuck it_. Nora thought back, attempting to fit herself back into the moment of that day. The scent of upturned soil and mildew. The sounds of stifled sobs. Boston Fire Chief Donald Mason's obsidian face knitted into controlled anguish. Pre-War Nick Valentine, vacant-eyed and lost -  
  
Nora slanted the radio before her mouth, pressed the 'talk' button, and spoke. "Central to Firefighters Margo McKelvey and Leroy Connolly."  
  
Holding the portable for a second longer than she should have, Nora wasn't sure what she was waiting for. An expectant segment of her waited - and yearned for - the blurting of a familiar voice to echo in response. Maybe even a hiss of white noise. A _sign_ that wouldn't come. There were no dispatchers on the other side of this communication ... no lonely, still-alive fireman with active radios ... nobody bent over the stations' audio system, waiting and praying for somebody to break through.  
  
She was alone.  
  
The last of Boston's daredevils.  
  
A knot claimed her throat, churning the acid of remnant vomit. "Central to Firefighters Margo McKelvey and Leroy Connolly," she choked out. _Please respond_. Foolish. Their bones sprawled across broken asphalt not far from where she crouched. They wouldn't be responding unless the radiation brought the dead back to life.  
  
_"We utilize these traditions as symbols, which reflect honor and respect on those who have given so much and who have served so well."  
  
_ "Having heard no response from Firefighters Margo McKelvey and Leroy Connolly, we know that McKelvey and Connolly have responded to their last call on Earth and that the fire department in the hereafter has new responders." Nora's slow exhale was simply a precursor, a nerve-calmer. It didn't do the job too well. "Firefighter Margo McKelvey served the citizens of Suffolk County for six years. Firefighter Connolly served for four years." She should be crying. Nora's eyes burned, but the tears would not come. "We appreciate McKelvey and Connolly's dedication and their families' sacrifices during the time they were firefighters ... Firefighters Margo McKelvey and Leroy Connolly have now become guardians who will help watch our for all firefighters and first responders as they respond to emergencies. Firefighters Margo McKelvey ... and Leroy Connolly completed their tours ... as firefighters in this life."  
  
Fatigue. Her eyes were heavy. Every limb became lead.  
  
She tried to imagine Jenny's smiling face. It was replaced with the pale white imposter laying in her casket.  
  
"Be safe," Nora whispered meekly into the portable. "Until ... we meet again." Her gaze flickered to the Pip-Boy. Somehow, miraculously, it kept time. Did the planet even function on the same time schedule anymore? Would the bombs have shifted Earth's axis badly enough to alter that? "Central ... clear at 18:23 hours."  
  
She could have made it as a dispatcher. The thought alone made Nora laugh mirthlessly.  
  
_"To symbolize the devotion that these brave souls had for their duty, a special signal of three rings, three times each, represents the end of our comrades' duties and that they will be returning to quarters."  
  
_ Turning the radio towards Engine 39's steamer intake, Nora tapped the rusted steel with the hard edge of her Pip-Boy. The first strike resounded several times duller than she had hoped ... but it was the effort that counted, she supposed. If anybody could hear this solo exchange over the radio somehow, she was certain the symbolism would be lost on them anyway. Two strikes ... and the third, clanging a little louder with an air of finality ... and Nora sunk to her knees in a puddle of physical pain that hadn't existed hours before.  
  
Boston's last firefighter.  
  
She covered her eyes.  
  
Husband dead. Best friend dead. All of her closest friends and comrades dead.  
  
It was cold out. She started to shiver.  
  
Son lost to the winds.  
  
Nora wished Nick Valentine the synth was there with her.  
  
_"And so, to those who have selflessly given their lives for the good of their fellow man, their tasks completed, their duties well done, to our comrades, their last alarm, they are going home."_

  
  


 


	3. Enter: The Shroud

It didn't help that I'd forgotten the door code. I rapped hard on the hollowed metal door, each knock resounding hard enough on the outside that it reverberated through my ear canals. Loud enough to draw attention ... from within and without the building.  
  
The night appeared to stir. Movement - faint, not far at all. Jenny shifted uncomfortably. Goosebumps formed along my spine, creeping beneath my shoulder blades and caressing the base of my skull.  
  
Another series of _knock-knock-knock_. My knuckles hummed.  
  
Footsteps on the pavement - deliberately slow. Distant but coming closer. A distinct change of air pressure. The cooling of blood. A shadow appearing just out of range from the corner of my left eye. Jenny pressed into my side, head whipping about as though she'd been slapped.

I didn't see her face - I imagined her eyes were wide and terrified - but her scared voice was barely audible. "Nora?"  
  
Tension nagged my lizard brain. Something screeching in gray matter _danger danger DANGER!_ and my fist poised for another strike far more desperate than the last -

  
Brilliant white light flooded the darkest of city nights. So bright I shielded my eyes, winced against the sharpness. Movement to my side suggested Jenny was doing to same. To my left, a rapid scurrying of feet. Creatures of the twilight dispersing back into the folds of blackness.  
  
"Nora?" a familiar, gruff voice flits through my blindness. "Jenny? What the hell?"  
  
I blink away the twinkling sparkles plaguing my vision. My shoulders droop. Jenny's grip on my upper arm becomes softer. She heaves a relieved, happy sigh.  
  
As my eyes adjust, I can begin to make out the rugged features of our savior. Jack Hynes doesn't stand very tall. He's a meager 5'6" with the genes of giants coursing through his ancestry. Teal eyes are bordered by worry lines and crow's feet, and the roughness of his chin and cheeks suggests his date with a razor is long overdue. Peppered chestnut hair looks as though it's been brushed with his hand and nothing else. He's the mirror of exhaustion. Either we caught him just getting back from a call, or just waking up from a nap.  
  
Either way, I grin at him. It's enough to twist his frown upwards, fresh crinkles born above his cheeks.  
  
"Hi Pops."  
  
__________

  
A human would probably be fretting with heart palpitations, a sudden onset of fatigue, lingering queasiness sparked by the twisting of nerves in and around the stomach, spurred into action by a brain that was processing far too much in all the worst ways. Driving fear and a wave of helplessness. Shortness of breath. Twitching fingers.  
  
Nick lacked all of the above. Scratch that - _most_ of the above. Phantom chest pains from a living counterpart he'd had 'nightmares' about (if you could call flashes of memory under the duress of self-diagnostics nightmares, or even _dreams_ ). A dredging sensation of grief that plagued his receptors. Deep regret spiking agonal pains in the heart he didn't have. And yes, his fingers _did_ twitch - a physical anomaly in and of itself, since he didn't quite cater survival hormones or adrenal glands. Unless the Institute did some unknown tinkering to his useless body before shucking it into a garbage pile.  
  
It wouldn't be the first time Nick Valentine the synth unintentionally chased somebody off. There had been clients so spooked by his appearance alone that they'd made tracks from his office quicker than a stingwing on the hunt. He was used to that by now. Regrettably. Some folks just couldn't cope with a walking, talking mechanical man. Those types were a dime a dozen.  
  
But for every terrified human was somebody who saw him as unique ... that tolerated his presence long enough to grow curious about him. Then there were those who saw him as an equal. Treated him like a person. Mutual respect. Piper. Ellie. John. _Nora_.  
  
Nora, though ... Nora deserved a tier all her own. Never before had he struck up with somebody so easily. Same pre-war memories of a Boston fallen to the gutter. Same knack of puns only they understood. Inside jokes up the wazoo. Comfortable (and sometimes teetering on awkward) banter and good-humored jabs that heralded with it bursts of familiarity. Nick felt as though they'd met before. Somehow. Somewhere.  
  
Before they left Sanctuary Hills after burying Nora's late husband, Mama Murphy ambled up to him with bloodshot eyes ... Jet on her breath, an empty inhaler in her hand. High as a goddamn kite (Nora already warned him of the old woman's addiction to chems). She'd rambled at him about old souls, Kindred Spirits. Nick dismissed it then as the ramblings of a drugged up old bat. Now he couldn't help but feel that maybe Mama Murphy had been onto something.  
  
He and Nora had more in common than the recently-thawed popsicle could know. Lost loves playing games with the old heartstrings (and even if Jennifer Lands had not been _his_ spouse-to-be, per se, the hurt was still raw and tangible enough ... ). Thrust into an entirely different world with no time to prepare. Antiques from another era. Older than the Brotherhood of Steel. Older than the war. One flesh. One metal with memories of _having_ flesh. A pair of ghouls without radiation mutilating their bodies (though Nick came a close second).  
  
Gone now. Scared off. It shouldn't have surprised him, but Valentine had hoped their companionship might last a little longer - at least until they'd found her son. There was no way he could have taken into consideration Kellogg usurping control of his body ... damn near _murdering_ the icy dame. _With his hands_. Sure, sure, that servos-freezing guilt forced him to nudge her out the door - he was afraid the merc would _come back_ to finish the job ...  
  
But he'd hoped, at least, Nora would swing by. Even if only to say goodbye.  
  
Almost midnight now and not a peep. Nick pressed the heated metal of his exposed hand to his forehead and sighed.  
  
Doctor Amari went above and beyond the purge memories of Kellogg from his system. At least Nick wouldn't have an aged murderer cackling in his noggin'. It was crammed enough in there as it was.  
  
After exchanging toying flirts, Irma retired to bed with Amari. Kent Connolly's door was closed and all was quiet behind it, so it was safe to assume the Silver Shroud fanatic was sleeping as well. Outside, the streets of Goodneighbor were prowling with all sorts of night owls. No doubt the Third Rail was bustling. _In a little bit_ , he thought, _I oughta head by to say hello._ John was likely there. He could at least give the mayor an earful before hiking back to Diamond City. Alone.  
  
The Memory Den's door opened slowly and creaked shut. Sluggish, uneven footsteps petered down the hallway. Nick lit up a cigarette and leaned back into the sofa. Nora, he _hoped_.  
  
No such luck. The young male that poked his head into the lobby was easily at _least_ ten years younger than her. _Two- **hundred** and ten years,_ Nick corrected himself. The boy's lips parted. Alcohol wafted between what was left of his off-color teeth as he half-slouched against the wall.  
  
" _Psssfftt_ , huh, ya here?" he cajoled to nobody in particular. His eyes were distant, unfocused. " _Nnnnira_? Heyuh ... "  
  
"Everyone's turned in for the night," Nick drawled. His cherry burned. Smoke poured through the tears in his throat. He watched the stranger's expression closely as his head turned, his eyes snapping to Nick's metal bits and glowing eyes. Suddenly the man was slack-jawed and staring. _Here we go ..._ "Just me. Guess you could say I'm the, ahhh, _receptionist_ for the evening."  
  
"Holy _ffff_ \- a smoking _robot_ \- !"  
  
Classic and ... well, at least it was several steps away from, _'Holy shit, a synth!'_ Nick raised an eyeridge, plucking the butt from his scarred plastic lips. "Keen powers of observation there, kid."  
  
He waited for some jeering counter or some kind of insult. Instead, the kid rolled back onto his heels and jammed his hands into the pockets of his long coat. "Damn man, she wasn't _lyin'_ \- "  
  
The electronics in his head started whirring. "If you're looking for a place to sleep off the booze, the Hotel Rexford's nextdoor."  
  
"Naw, I'm ... " The man lapsed into a fit of giggles muffled only by the coiled fist pressed against his twitching mouth. "Just - _damn_ \- it smokes!"  
  
"I'm getting too old for this bit, Nick grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose.  
  
While the merc-type humanoid didn't quite collapse to the floor in uncontrollable laughter, he did lean heavily against the wall, shoulders slack at his sides, flat chest heaving with each bubbling chortle. Now while Valentine wasn't a rude man, he had his limits ... And they were quite at their peak. So he coped the only way he knew how - lighting one cancer stick after another in irritated silence.  
  
Eventually the laughter ebbed into dimmer noises, then silence. The mystery man sniffled. He ran a hand beneath his nostrils, inspected the catch ( _disgusting_ ) and tossed his bloodshot eyes from one end of the room to the other. "'Kay, so ... where's the giantess at?"  
  
Nick's would-be eyebrows furrowed. "Come again?"  
  
"The - the ... " Stumbling over his words, the man-child held both hands high above his head, standing on tip-toes to properly exaggerate his point. "The _biggun_ '. Nyeehh ... _Vaultie_ , right? Tall babe with the blond hair an' smokin' bod."  
  
"Ah ... " Whatever _gentlemanly_ nature Nick was retaining skated on thin ice. A human might refer to his sudden edginess - the tightness of his jaw and the narrowing of his glowing oculars - as _bristling_. A harsh kind of protectiveness unfurled from outta nowhere. "My _partner_." Acid stoked his corrosive words. The bite surprised young blood there into an upright, alarmed position. "She's not here at the moment. What _business_ is this about?"  
  
"Well - I, uh - that is - " he stammered, shaking his skull as if rattling alcohol from those dying brain cells. "She - it's nothing like _that_ , **god**." Palms were held up, facing outward. Defending himself verbally - or physically guarding his face (a good idea, depending on what reaction his next statement might provoke). "The babe - _chick_ \- **_lady_** talked 'bout hittin' the Sea. I just _happen_ to know where ta get a Rad Suit. And was ... was gunna offer some company gettin' there."  
  
The detective visually scanned him from head to toe. Clearly young ... mid-twenties, maybe, with hardly an ounce of pudge on him. Lean legs made for running and arms built just enough to hold his own in a fight. What caught Valentine's attention the most, however, were the high-caliber bullets decorated his narrow-brimmed hat ... belonging, without a doubt, to the scoped beast strapped to his back. _A sniper, huh?_ He wracked his memory chip for any details of the civilian: recorded snippets of conversation, passing warnings, _anything_.  
  
"What's your name, kid?"  
  
"MacCready."  
  
" _Just_ MacCready?"  
  
"Just MacCready _to you_ ," snapped the merc, dropping his guard and thumbing his goatee. "And I ain't no kid."  
  
An old file collecting dust matched the name. Hancock brought him up in conversation one time. Kid was a former Gunner taking up space in Goodneighbor for a while. Was trying to set up shop. Make a name for himself. Something the upstanding, _active_ Gunners weren't real fond of. MacCready flaunted his expertise in marksmanship, and according to John, the kid didn't lie. A crack shot with a high kill count.  
  
_And just how many of those were innocent folks?_  
  
Damn it. Nick had told Nora to go find someone willing to travel to the Glowing Sea in his stead. She'd found this lout? It was his own fault, really, for being so dismissive - so eager to pass on the torch after Kellogg made his debut. Perhaps MacCready was a good investment ... but he was also a _Gunner_ , at one point or another. And that gang didn't gain a reputation for being _merciful_ to those that got in their way (whether they were armed or not).  
  
Valentine pursed his synthetic, scarred lips. "So ya found yourself a mark, a potential _client_ , and what? You just lost sight of her?"  
  
MacCready found a good spot behind his ear to scratch. "Well ... we were at the Third Rail, yeah? Knockin' back some drinks. Shootin' the brahmin. Suddenly she gets this _look_ , you know? Like a radstag in the scope." _Deer in the headlights,_ Nick corrected to himself. Subconsciously he could hear Nora titter in her best old woman voice, _'These danged kids and their newfangled lingo.'_ "Gets all wide-eyed and high-tails it outta there. I tried to follow her but _damn_ can she _sprint_. So I figured she might swing by here. Said she had a good friend at the Memory Den, but ... "  
  
The peculiar warmth settling in his chest at being titled 'good friend' is nothing compared to the unsettling dread revealing itself through hard-wired synapses. A handful of different scenarios flash before his eyes. Nora, drunk. Nora, drunk with _poor judgment_ and spooked by **something**. She could be anywhere in Goodneighbor. The sketchy alleyways ... the boarded-up warehouses everybody knows are Triggermen hidey holes ... or ...  
  
She could be _outside_.  
  
Somewhere in downtown Boston. Running the _Commons_. At **_night_**.  
  
"Shit." Nick was on his feet, snubbing out his smoke and brushing past MacCready without so much as glancing his way. " _Damn it_."  
  
The ex-Gunner wasn't about to be left behind. He rode on Valentine's trench coat (so to speak) with an erratic gait and a confused 'what the hell?' expression. "Where ya running off to, Gramps?"  
  
"Just follow me, kid, and keep your eyes peeled."

__________________  
  
"You don't have to call Mom right _now_ ... "  
  
"You know I do, kiddo."  
  
We're hauled off to the first floor's office. There's two sofas and a recliner, all cushiony and worn down from years and years of abuse. A huge bookcase spans the farthest wall's entirety, filled to the brim with educational material (some of which is dated at least 60 years). At the front of the room is a large desk surrounded on either side by filing cabinets and a printer. A holotape recorder, a terminal ... and a helmet camera, among the first of its kind. Dad is a tinkerer. He likes to take things apart to see how they work. This little toy is one of his latest victims.  
  
He pulls up a rolling chair and sets to dialing while Jenny and I sit next to each other on the smaller sofa. It's not long before the rest of Dads night crew comes rolling around. Johnny Ganci of Long Island ... Fred Petti of Richmond, VA ... Angela McAleese of Boston ... They pile in one after the other, all jokes and smiles. Happy to see me. Happy to see _us_. It isn't the first time Jenny's been here and they know her well enough. Their bright eyes and tired smiles are enough to make us feel welcome, even if the circumstances are a little off tonight.  
  
Dad clears his throat to silence the room. The phone is pressed to his ear and we can hear the ringing. Then, "Hi, baby."  
  
Mom's whisper is slow, froggy. He's just woken her up, and of course she's afraid that something's wrong.  
  
"No no, honey, everything's okay. Just wanna let you know that Nora's here. With Jenny." He pauses to let her grogginess roll into stunned, moderately angry surprise. "Yea, I know what time it is ... At least they got here safely ... Yup ... Yeah, okay. Still gotta get ahold of Richard." Jenny's knuckles whiten. Her face grows pale. It's a reaction they all see. "I might be able to just keep them here tonight. I'll bring them back around when I get off shift ... Okay ... Okay, I love you too. Go back to sleep, babe."  
  
Dad hangs up the phone, waits a beat, and scoops up the headset again. Jenny squeaks a terrified whimper. She's _shaking_.  
  
"Dad," I utter loud enough to get his attention.  
  
He turns with a rebuttal eager on his lips to my plea. But as soon as he sees Jenny, he frowns and sets the phone down. There's a hint of anger across his eyes, lighting his cheeks into small roses. A similar display makes itself known on the face of everybody in the room. Angela's face is especially fiery. Are they mad at _us_? I want to shrink back into the sofa right then.  
  
"I _have_ to call your father, Jenny," Jack informs her rigidly. "It's a father's duty - "  
  
"Some father _that_ is," Fred spits.  
  
" - a father's _duty_ to know that his children are safe. Even if he's a dumb son of a - " Dad bites off the rest of his sentence and it's abundantly clear just _who_ they're actually angry at. "Look, otherwise he can peg us for kidnapping or something stupid like that."  
  
Johnny sneers. "You know he'd love to capitalize on this, Jack."  
  
Jenny looks like she's about to have a breakdown. I hold her hand - she's about crushing my fingers - as Dad picks up the phone again. This time it rings. And rings. And rings ... The only voice to break through is that of an automated answering machine. The other firefighters utter a collective sigh.  
  
"Hi, Richard ... ," Dad begins. He speaks through gritted teeth initially, forcing himself to relax as the seconds tick by. "This is Jack Hynes. I just wanted to inform you that your daughter is here at the station. She and Nora came here last night. So if you wanted to come by ... Or we could keep her here overnight until I get off work. I ... I know we aren't on the right foot, but I just wanna let you know that she's okay. Call us back when you get this - if we're not in the office, we're on a call. The number is ... "  
  
Dad spits out a series of numbers. He hands up the phone with a little more force than necessary. The chair swivels towards us.  
  
"So your father isn't answering," he says. The little throbbing vein popping from his forehead is taking cover beneath the skin again. His color returns to a normal peach. "Guess that means yer stuck with us until further notice."  
  
Jenny's slow sigh seems to contain her very soul. Her body slumps in the sofa, exhausted from the intense anxiety. Head falling to the side with a groan, I can see the faintest hint of something purple on the flesh beneath her pajama collar. Scrutiny takes hold. I inch closer for a better look, but she's shifted to a different position and fabric rolls over the questionable mark.  
  
"I feel like food," Angela pipes up from nowhere. "Do you feel like food?"  
  
"Ya _always_ feel like food, Ang," Fred teases.  
  
"I can't work on an empty stomach."  
  
"How about that sandwich joint?" Johnny inquires a little hopefully.  
  
Dad shoots him down. "You know they ain't open this time of night."  
  
"Drumlin Diner?" purrs Fred. "It's a little outta the way but they're open all night."  
  
Jack is on his feet. His grin is broad enough to blow away the remnants of Jenny's trepidation. "Diner it is. You kids want a midnight dinner?"  
  
___________  
  
  
By a quarter-to-midnight, Kent Connolly was on the verge of cabin fever.  
  
He was _bored_. Not because it was late at night and he was the only one awake (save for a brooding Nick Valentine, who didn't really need to sleep anyway) in the Memory Den ... Not even because he'd done spent the entire day (mostly) in his room, overseeing the Silver Shroud broadcast.  
  
Although the broadcast had _something_ to do with his restlessness.  
  
Mainly because all he was issuing now was rerun after rerun. The same five episodes. Rehashed over and over again. The hapless ears tuned in to these stories was bound to tire of the same ol' same ol'. Which meant he would lose listeners. And his station would vanish into the pile of dust from which his original holotapes came ... and with it, the fragmented hope he'd wished would come to light - that wave of change meant to inspire Goodneighbor to become something _better_ than a hostel for wayward thieves.  
  
Kent thumbed the parchment enclosed in his jacket pocket. He knew how to solve this problem ... knew where to go ... A novelty shop in downtown Boston. Hubris Comics. Leroy promised to take him there once he got Kent to make the move down the coast. That was before the bombs, and after ... well, Kent had _tried_ to get close to the place. But it was a hornet nest of hungry ferals and angry super mutants. He lacked the firepower - no, the _courage_ to venture closer, unwilling to knock on death's door when it stood so invitingly before him.  
  
But he knew ... Knew there where more holotape episodes packed inside. Knew there were some pristine comics packed away. Even knew of the pristine Silver Shroud costume herself, stitched together lovingly for the upcoming live-action television series.  
  
Even though 'upcoming' was, technically, out of date two centuries ago.  
  
He slipped outside while Valentine was still downstairs dealing with a memory pod, with paper in one hand and a sack of caps in the other. Daisy was a night owl like himself, and a kind heart. She had a lot less of a hard time dealing with folks - wayward strangers, everyday Joes. Kent stammered and stuttered and shied away, unable to put his words in properly formulated sentences. He'd shift from one foot to the other and look off into the distance. Avoid eye contact. It made him appear weak, meager ... easy to take advantage of. Easier to bully. Daisy wouldn't stand that. She'd throw down the gauntlets and state her intent without wavering.  
  
Except she wasn't at the shop. KLE-O neither.  
  
_Darn it_ , he thought. _Probably off to the Third Rail._ Daisy was an exceptional worker with a striking personality and high charisma. She'd caught Mayor Hancock's eye a long time ago, and the colonial-dressed ghoul made every attempt to wine and dine her. It was cute. Maybe. The pang of jealousy in his chest hissed otherwise.  
  
That was okay ... she wasn't here, that was fine. He'd leave the caps (the reward for whatever wayward soul decided to take up the venture) safely hidden under the sales counter somewhere and tuck the note in a place where she'd easily see it. Would have to scrawl in some added instructions, though, considering Kent really wanted to speak to her _directly_ first ...  
  
In his pursuit to find a functioning pen laying about somewhere on one of Daisy's shelves, he was acutely unaware of approaching footsteps until the hard, smooth, _cold_ barrel of a gun dipped into the concave of his rear skull. A breath of alcohol, tobacco, and pluming Jet breached his hairless temple and prickled tears from his eyes of red and blue.  
  
"Stop where yer at, Leatherface."  
  
Kent froze. Ice trickled into his veins, turned his nerves and blood solid. He couldn't find his voice until a gruff, abnormally large hand fitted with callouses and gloves found his shoulder and spun him roughly around, and even then his plea was weak, nigh indiscernible. "Puh- _please_ , I'm n-n-not robbin' her store, I p-p-p-prom - "  
  
"Shut the hell up, Kent," bit the man, slowly tracing his gun from the back of his neck to the center of his forehead, never once lifting the barrel away from marred flesh. "The one time I wanna hear yer fuckin' stu-stu- _stutter_ if when yer answering my questions, got me?"  
  
It wasn't a voice he really recognized. So many in Goodneighbor had raspy twangs to their vocalizations courtesy of radiation burns and mottled mutations to the larynx. But through squinting eyes that couldn't quite focus, he could place the logo emblazoned in the man's leather shoulder guard: a skull with an 'x'. Trademark for Gunners. And this guy ... Yeah, he'd seen him before. Heard his name, even. But never interacted with him. _So how did he know Kent's name?_  
  
His hands were shaking, knees quivering. The note between his raisin fingers slipped from his grip and fluttered to the floor. "F-Finn, right? I'm - uh - I don't wanna - "  
  
The swing of the gun's butt into his temple corrected his error in speaking. Kent squealed - saw stars, then blackness - and then he was on the ground with a boot heel burrowing into the small of his back.

" - don't fuckin' listen for nuthin'," snarled Finn. "Ya gonna answer me now, huh? Where'd ya put 'em caps? I know that's what ya had."  
  
"I don't ... " Breathlessness made it hard for him to speak loud. Kent swallowed against the lump in his throat and tried again. "I d-don't - _why_?"  
  
"Ya tell me, ya little runt, and I might not put a round in your retard skull," hissed the Gunner. There was the gun again. Hard steel jabbed several times behind his ear. "Maybe even keep ya safe. For a little bit, ya know, 'til somebody else comes 'round. Whatcha say? With that pathetic little radio station ya got, you probably ain't got nearly enough to pay me off for a _week_ , but maybe if ya cooperate with me I can make it last a little _longer_."  
  
A distant shout. Or maybe Kent was hearing things. "You don't gotta - "  
  
"Don't tell what I do and gon't gotta do, kid - "  
  
"Puh-p _hhh_ \- take it _takeit_ j-just don't - "  
  
There it was again. Louder. Distinct. Feminine. Familiar. " _HEY_!"  
  
Finn plucked the gun off Kent's skull, aimed it somewhere the ghoul couldn't se, and shouted, "Don't you take one more _FUCKING_ step, bitch!"  
  
He dared to look. Just for a second. The rushing of feet. A blur of silver. Alleviation of weight and pain from his back, followed by a hard thud and a cracking gunshot like thunder in the sky -

Kent's chest elicited a rush of butterfly wings and stabbing pain, and his vision flashed white.  
  
__________  
  
There were two more firefighters upstairs, both dead asleep. Dad and the others woke them up - _rudely_ , though that was kinda common in the firehouse - by dousing them with cold water. A slew of cursing, haughty laughter, light-hearted punches ... and thirty minutes later, they were off.  
  
Fred and Angela followed in the squad car to afford us space in the back of the fire engine. It was the first time Jenny ever rode in it. Not even total darkness could obscure the raw excitement shining light from her face. "This is," she began, fighting to find the words, "this is so ... so ... "  
  
"Cool?" I supplied.  
  
She nodded excitedly. " _SO_ cool!"  
  
It must have been a sight to see the fire truck rolling into the diner's puny parking lot, followed by a red-and-white SUV-styled vehicle, at four-something in the morning. But this was Boston Fire ... and it was probably a common practice, considering the beaming smiles that welcomed us inside.

Donald Mason - back then an Assistant Chief - met us at one of the booth seats. His persona was a hard one to forget, what with his ebony skin and incredibly stocky shoulders and black handlebar mustache. Chocolate eyes glistened down at me, lips parting to display some of the whitest teeth I've ever seen. "Good mornin', Peanut."  
  
I had the appetite of a starving lion back in the day, but that night - er, _morning_ \- was the first time Jenny ever surpassed me. She was a ravenous vulture, devouring ever little crumb left on her plate. Dad even ordered her seconds, his request shadowed by the hushed whispers of his comrades ("Does he even _feed_ her?" "Poor thing ... " "I wanna kill that _asshole_.")  
  
Something hot and white stirred in my chest. I thought back to Jenny's dad - dead asleep in the recliner with the television blaring, screeching into the midnight hour ... and Jenny, curled on her bed under a blanket as if that would shield her from whatever might come ... the purple spot I swore I spotted on her shoulder ... I was a kid. Innocent, mostly. I got mad at broken toys or when they postponed my favorite cartoons. Pissy at bullies that talked down to Jenny. But this was a new level of hatred. Venomous, laced with _something darker_.  
  
For her sake - for _my_ sake - I pushed the emotion aside. Jenny was happy. She smiled. She laughed. She was in her _safe place_. I wasn't going to spoil that. Not on my life.  
  
The ride home was overcast with the fatigue that stemmed from eating too much. Lazy conversations of prior fire calls rolled in the cab from one adult to the other and we listened in like the curious tykes we were, not really making sense of it all but piecing just enough together to entertain us.  
  
It might have been 5 a.m. when we finally pulled up to the station ... and a horrible, knotting silence overtook the amiable conversation, settling in as some dark cloud precursing a thunderstorm.  
  
Richard Lands parked in front of the bay doors, effectively blocking any and all engines from leaving in case of a fire. He stood otuside his idling vehicle, red-faced with balled fists. Jenny sank into her seat. I unbuckled my belt to hld her.  
  
Dad's breath hissed between teeth. It did nothing to subdue the curse that flung from his tongue.  
  
___________  
  
  
Nora saw red, felt heat, heard the bullet whizzing past her ear - past the scar on her temple, into the shop's roof. On the second floor, something glass shattered. His gun-arm dropped, was angling - and Nora took the slimmest moment of clear advantage to pin him against the floor by his elbows. This guy's face was mottled crimson and twisted in fury. Bald-headed with the faintest growth of dark brown stubble dusting his chin ... If he wrinkled his face the right way, he looked strikingly similar to Kellogg -  
  
Nora shook the vision clear and all but shouted into the stranger's face, "Settle **_the fuck_** down, will you?!"  
  
"Get the **_FUCK_** off me, **_CUNT_**!"  
  
" _Put down your fucking GUN first_!"

His response came with a twitch of his right arm. Nora ducked low, chest pressing against the man's torso armor. Two more bullets sprang behind her, unlocking a new pair of singed holes in the wall. Nora turned her head - intent to lock eyes with the guy and make him _calm the fuck down_ by force if necessary - when his skull snapped upwards and hard bone cracked against the fragile cartilage of her nose. She heard a snap, tasted blood, went temporarily blind from the pain.  
  
Suddenly she was being hoisted off the ground. He wasn't nearly tall enough to yank her off her feet, so they dragged against the concrete. Nora's back was slammed against the wall. Air was ejected from her lungs. She gasped, sight creeping back in - enough to see the ghoul on the ground stir and watch through wide, terrified eyes, enough to note the bedraggled man's face was inching closer to her own. She latched onto his arm, trying to pry it away.  
  
"Don't you _ever_ jump into a fucking _Gunner's_ business, you dumb _bitch_." The gun was at her head. Heat burned onto her flesh. Nora grimaced. "I oughta fuckin' take ya out just fer interruptin' - "  
  
She was starting to break out of the pain, regain her composure. The man - Gunner that he was - appeared to notice this. He might have been short, but he was strong: strong enough to pull her forward and smash her repeatedly into the brick wall. Every bit of oxygen was being forced from her chest the moment it was inhaled. Nora's brain jarred against the sharp edges of her inner skull. At the fifth and final, her appendages fell slack. Faint but coherent. Vaguely aware at his roving eyes, the subtle relief of his gun-hand pulling slightly away from her head.  
  
"But yer such a _pretty_ thing, ain'tcha?" The man's finger still pressed against the trigger but the weapon was wandering. Tracing down her jawline, down her neck, across the collarbone into the plushness of her breast. "Ya can pay me back, I think. For the inconvenience. I think that's a _suitable deal_ \- "  
  
"L-leave her alone, Finn," pleaded the timid ghoul. He was pushing himself up onto his elbows, frowning but still afraid. "She didn't kn-know who you w-w-w - "  
  
"Shut the _fuck UP_ Kent!" Finn was the sort who angered easily, was distracted from his goings-on by his own frustration. It showed when he wheeled around to deliver a sharp kick into the ghoul's tender ribs. Kent reeled onto his side, then his back, groaning pitifully. A familiar twinge of rage cooked up in Nora's sternum. "You fucking **_talk_** when I **_WANT YA_** to fuckin' talk - "  
  
Saved by the knee to Finn's balls. He squealed and went wide-eyed as Nora retracted her long leg, fixing gazes with her just long enough to catch her forehead at the bridge of his nose. Then he was stumbling backwards, pursued by a bloody-faced and angry poltergeist with teeth clenched together.  
  
"Fucking headbutt _me_?" she snapped, throwing her fist into his soft abdomen. Finn buckled forward, but she pushed his head backwards with the palm of her other hand and punched him again. "I'll fucking headbutt **_you_**."  
  
Finn's arm jerked up. Metal glinted in the dim shop light. Nora folded down and tackled him, missing the fourth bullet as he was propelled into the farthest wall. She regrouped enough to grab his weaponized limb - one hand just below his shoulder and the other beneath his elbow - and in a blur of fury, pushed it _backwards_ over the wall's corner until bones were splintering and Finn was _screaming_.  
  
He fell to the ground then, cradling his mutilated arm - for one didn't have to look hard to see the hard bulge protruding against the hard leather of his armor. Finn was writhing in pain. Whimpering. Cursing. Grunting. And Nora ... she took several steps back until her boots were on a foot away from Kent, hovering protectively over him.  
  
And from the ghoul's perspective ... this slender woman with long blond hair so pale it was almost silver, silhouetted just barely against the hardly-lit ceiling lamp ... Maybe she lacked the submachine gun. Maybe she was not clad in a black long coat, and didn't don a charcoal fedora ... But he was certain. Positive. There was no mistaking it.  
  
The Silver Shroud.  
  
The Silver Shroud was alive. And _here_ in Boston.  
  
__________  
  
  
"Richard, man, look ... I know you're pissed, but you gotta move yer damn _car_."  
  
"Don't you fuckin' talk to me like that, you sonnuva bitch," snapped Richard Lands. He pointed an accusatory finger at Dad. His pupils are constricted so tightly that you barely even notice they're there unless you stare. Angela mutters something about him being high. It isn't until I'm older that I understand what she means. "You took my fuckin' _daughter_ \- my flesh and _blood_ \- right out from under my fuckin' nose and you don't think I'd notice?!"  
  
Fred eases into the conversation. " _Language_ , man. There's kids - "  
  
"I know DAMN WELL there's kids here. That little _runt_ is **_mine_**." Richard's eyes are on me. Jenny hides behind my back, burying her nose between my shoulders. "That little smartass **bitch** of yers - she did this, **_didn't_** she?! Took my Jenny outta the house - _got her **here**_?!"  
  
Dad's eyes twitch. He angles his head downwards, red flashing against his cheeks. That frustrated vein pops onto his forehead again. "Richard ... "  
  
Johnny steps in front of Dad. It's his turn to try to ease the tension of their current situation - more for Richard's sake than their own at this point. "We _clearly_ left you a message on your machine. The kids came here. We didn't _kidnap_ 'em and Nora sure as hell didn't take Jenny against her will." Donald Mason takes several steps back and utters something into his handheld radio. A confirmation is voiced back to him. "So just ... calm down. We're all adults here. We can talk this out, okay? Ain't no need for flinging insults."  
  
When I'm older, I realize this moment is less about appeasing an angry father and more about stalling him from taking Jenny.  
  
It's a failed attempt, anyway. Richard no longer wants anything to do with talking to the other men. He spins for Jenny and I instead, lurches towards us - an angry giant with punishment on his mind. No longer is his gaze fixed upon me. He's staring at Jenny. And Jenny is cowering.  
  
I take several steps back, pushing my friend along with me. Angela and Fred advance to hold him back, but Richard breaks into a sprint. I'm not fast enough to avoid an older man with longer legs. His arm extends past my shoulder, snatches Jenny's little wrist and squeezes it so hard that she breaks into shrill shrieks. She reaches for me with her other hand, and I grab it - but her father wrenches her back so hard, so violently, that she loses footing, falls backwards onto the concrete, and breaks into hysterical tears.  
  
And I'm _such a moron_.  
  
But I launch into action.  
  
I attack Richard's stomach, pummel my little fists against his massive belly. "YOU LEAVE HER ALONE!" I belt out, much louder than I thought I would. There's not much damage I can do to him ... but I feel his weight shift, and don't realize what's happening until Angela hollers for me to get back. But I don't. I _won't_. "YOU'RE JUST A BIG MEANIE! LEAVE HER - "  
  
A deafening crack. My head snaps to the side. A horrible, stinging pain starts at my cheek and ends at my nose. I'm stunned. Jenny is wailing. Richard is breathing hard, nostrils flaring. The other firefighters are silent, horrified.

And then, Dad is _roaring_.

My father is not a violent man ... but right here, right now, Richard is regretting ever showing his face at the fire department. The pavement is being stained red with blood splatters every time Dad's fist connects. Despite his massive size, Jenny's dad can fight about as well as a flopping fish. By the time the police arrive, Richard has gone limp.  
  
It takes two cops and Donald Mason to haul a flailing Jack Hynes off Richard Lands. Both are brought to the precinct as a matter of formality, but only Dad walks out that evening. The whole police department knows him and work through every loophole to get the assault charges dropped against him.  
  
Richard tests positive for herion and a slew of other narcotics. He's found guilty in the involvement of Jenny's mom's disappearance. Turns out they owed a hefty sum of money to a local dealer who was also part of a big-time street gang (that developed rapidly over the past few years). She was pushed into prostitution to pay off the debt, then into sex slavery somewhere else. Mrs. Lands was arrested several cities over. Now they both rot in prison together for the next ten years or more.  
  
Jenny is taken into child protective services temporarily, then sent to live with her grandmother in the richer part of Boston. Dad buys me a bike so I can ride up there to visit, and her grandmother splurges to do the same for Jenny. After the initial three weeks of adapting, our families make arrangements ... We both take Jenny for alternating weeks, and she unofficially becomes my live-in sister for half a month.  
  
And I didn't even get grounded for leaving the house in the middle of the night.  
  
Win/win.

______________

  
Nora doesn't pounce on the vulnerable Finn like other scavvers. She's painted with brutality, but not mercilessness. Her labored breathing makes hearing everything difficult, but the scurrying footfalls that break in their direction become more audible the closer they get.  
  
Barnes and Winlock are familiar faces, if distasteful ones. He's heard talk of them making trips into the third rail, threatening the newest Goodneighbor citizen. Also Gunners, their reputation precedes them. They drop to Finn's sides and survey his injuries. Their angry, rising voices indicate trouble. Kent knew trouble was on the way. Another fight was brewing. And this guess - this _hypothesis_ \- is proven correct when Finn's garbled whine issued the command to, "Gun the wretch down!"  
  
Nora doesn't flinch, but her movements are a little on the sluggish side. Whatever endorphins powered her before have worn down. Gloved fingers brush the blade of her axe, but even Kent knew that by the time she withdrew the weapon, it would be too late. Winlock and Barnes were already drawing on her. Aiming. Finding their triggers.  
  
A large gunshot rings out - louder than anything Kent has ever heard before. Dirt and rocks kick up at Barnes' feet. The impact crater left behind by the high-caliber bullet is deep enough to fit two baseballs into.  
  
"Back it up, boys," came a warning. MacCready rounded the corner, sniper rifle at the ready. He's tailed on both sides by Nick Valentine and Ham, both with weapons out. Even _Hancock_ was there. The ghoul mayor flanks them with a sawed-off shotgun.  
  
Finn scowled through red eyes and pain. " _Mac_ ," he all-but-shouted. "Is this bitch with you?"  
  
"Maybe." MacCready doesn't hesitate or shiver. Not a single muscle twitched. His aim is steady and true. "Or maybe I'm with her."  
  
"Doesn't matter either way, Finn," Hancock's rumbling octave seeped in. "You're shootin' at Goodneighbor friendlies. Where the good vibe in that, baby?"  
  
Of them all, Valentine's disposition is the most menacing. He stepped past MacCready, pipe pistol far less intimidating than the sniper rifle, but his eyes glow furiously and it gives him the feel of an Institute Courser rather than a synth detective. "You're outnumbered and outgunned. I'd either drop your weapons or get the hell out of town."  
  
Barnes and Winlock don't have to be told twice. They take to scooping Finn off the ground, but not before the disabled Gunner can utter a, "You're dead, Mac. _Alla_ you. Yer dead, you got me?" His rage-twisted maw settled on Nora. There was a fire in his eyes that made Kent shudder. "An _you_ \- you'll get what's comin', I promise, yer gunna - "  
  
Nick's trigger fingers spasmed. Unlike MacCready, he didn't fire simply to invoke fear. A red mist erupted from Finn's knee and he was carted out on a wave of slurred curses and death threats. Nora graced the Goodneighbor entrance with a casual flipping of the middle finger.  
  
The hand she extended to Kent was so small in comparison to the rest of her. He accepted the offer, being pulled gently to his feet, and her thumb rubbed aimlessly where it perched on the roughened skin. Like she was amazed by how it felt. Like she had never touched a ghoul before.  
  
"Are you alrght?" she asked. A tender voice. So sweet versus the violence in her prior actions.

Kent's heart did a little cartwheel. His head bent, scratching awkwardly at his neck. "I'm - uh - I been buh-buh- _better_. But ... alive, thanks t-t-tuh you."  
  
Her smile is divine. "What's your name, kid?"  
  
"Kent C-Connolly."  
  
And there ... is a complete shift in her expression. Nora's mouth becomes an 'o'. "Connolly?" Her teal eyes widen. Unexplained shock, subtle recognition. She was on the verge of a question, probably, when Valentine calls for her and the woman's attention was directed away.

They drift mere inches away from one another. His robotic fingers tap the fingers Nora uses to shield her nose, and her guard dropped with incredible ease. Valentine crooned something low and the woman laughed, surrendering her face to the synth's gently wandering digits. It was an issuance of trust so blaringly obvious that one would have to be blind to not see it. Even when Nick snapped her mangled nose back in place and Nora drew back with a fabulous array of cursing, there was a close bond there that Kent found himself envious of.  
  
But Kent slipped back into Daisy's shop. Retrieved the note. Left the caps. Even when Hancock sidled up alongside him to inspect his wellbeing, Kent knew that there was no point in asking Daisy to pass his very important mission along.  
  
Because he knew - he just _knew_ \- the perfect person for the job.

_______  
  
  
While Hancock escorted Kent Connolly back to the Memory Den and Ham retreated to his bouncer job at The Third Rail, MacCready deemed that it would be wasteful to not make use of Nora's rented room. Within a moment of entering, the former Gunner passed out on the sofa - legs and arms spread as open as his snoring mouth.  
  
Nick sat on the edge of the bed, fiddling with the never-tightened screw in his hand before Nora gently pries the tool from his grip and works on it for him.  
  
"Ya don't have to do that, Doll," he told her.  
  
Her unflinching fingers against the sleek metal of his exposed hand is a jab at Nick's vulnerability that he wasn't quite ready to accept, but he restrained himself from pulling away because the warmth was accepting, almost endearing. And he became vaguely aware of the heat whirring in his center torso.  
  
Nora must have noticed it, because she paused. Briefly. Then set back to work. "I don't mind giving you a _hand_."

Brilliant irises flit up to his face. The pun wasn't lost on him. He chuckled, earning the lightest, purest smile from her pale visage. Nick didn't know her completely ... didn't know her better than she knew herself. There was a lot of mystery there. History shrouded in a dense fog. But with the Glowing Sea excursion looming ominously on the horizon, Nick realized he would _miss_ her. That he feared for her safety. That he hoped she would come back into his office when all was said and done.  
  
And then he remembered the tightness of his fingers around her throat. His eyes lingered to the location for just a moment. They flinched away when she took notice.  
  
Once the screw is nice and tight, Nora slipped the screwdriver back into his coat pocket and sighed. "Oughta follow in sleeping beauty's footsteps over there," she told him, jerking a thumb Mac's way. His mouth was open so wide that she'd entertained the idea of tossing Dandy Boy Apples into it. "Gotta be up bright and early for that, ah, _grocery_ shopping tomorrow."  
  
A silence fell between them. It was stiff, stuffy, a little uncomfortable. Nick was on his way to voicing yet another apology when Nora broke the quietness by bumping his shoulder ever slightly.  
  
"And a carton of smokes or two," she chortled. "Three, maybe. Since Mac smokes too."  
  
Nick's blink was slow, confused. "Doll?"  
  
"And snacks. _Oh god_ , snacks. Maybe some grease for your joints. You did say it storms frequently out in the Sea, right?"  
  
He quickly registered what she was implying, and shook his head. "I can't come with you on this one."  
  
Nora's eyebrows raise. "Of course you can."  
  
"Not with a grizzled old merc floating around in my noggin'," retorted the synth detective. "The last thing you need is for my circuits to go haywire while climbing a mountain or - or staring down a deathclaw."  
  
"Amari didn't help you out?"  
  
"Sure she did, but that doesn't make being around me any safer. I almost _killed you_ before - "  
  
"But you didn't," she interrupted him. Nick sighed, fishing out his cigarettes. He took two puffs before handing it off to her. When she passes it back, Valentine noticed that Nora was wringing the wedding band around her finger. Anxiety. It was a trait he hadn't noticed until now ... probably because it was _new_. "Hell, Nick - if I was scared you might go rogue on me or something, I wouldn't have invited you back to my _bedroom_ where I plan to _sleep_."  
  
His glowing oculars settled on MacCready. "Well, you've got the marksman here."  
  
"He hardly strikes me as somebody who'd wake up to a pin drop." To drive her point home, Nora shucked the snubbed butt at his face. It bounced off his nose with nothing but a snort in return.

Humor rumbled through Nick's vocals. "Pick of the litter there."  
  
Nora laughed. She fell backwards, bouncing slightly on the worn mattress. "I want you with me on this one, Nick."  
  
Hesitation. "If you're sure - "  
  
"Sure I'm sure." Roving human fingers sought out his robotic pinky and gave it a squeeze. Flustering fire jolted his coolant system. "G'night, Doughnut. Don't let the dust mites bite."  
  
She rolled onto her side, back facing him. It didn't take long for her to doze off, wracked by soft breaths and the faintest snores. Nick watched her for a little while like that. A blink. Two. He looked to the door, considered leaving in the middle of the night ... then shot the notion of such an idea down.  
  
When he glanced back her way, Nora was _suddenly brown-haired, not blond. A peaceful smile, drifting off into happy dreams. Happiness, tender emotions. Reaching out to stroke her hair, fleshy pink digits opening and -_

Nick jerked back, studied his fingers ... and quietly dispatched himself from the bed to sit on a chair facing Nora instead.  
  
He would run system diagnostics in the morning.  
  
__________  
  
  
"Hey chiefy!" came the singsongy voice from downstairs. She was a sweetheart, but her voice was just so damned _punctuating_ , piercing even. Could wake a bear from hibernation. "ChieeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeFFFfffffYYYYYyyyyyyyyyyyYYYYYYYYYY!"  
  
He groaned, rolled over, and pulled the blanket over his head. "Go away."  
  
"I heard dat!"  
  
"I'm glad you did."  
  
Then nothing. He figured that maybe she gave up, started to pass on out again ... But boy oh boy, was he wrong. Heavy thuds of her steel-toed boots strapping their way up the stairs.  
  
Her claws enclosed around his ankles, and she gave a sharp tug. "C'mere, chief-o!" Important stuffs be's happenin', ya gots to be's comin'!"  
  
He growled. She didn't listen. One more yank and he was airborn - slung off the bed, the back of his head smashing worn carpet. He slapped his hands on either side of his face and winced. " _DAMN IT_ , girl!"  
  
She pounced atop him, wagging her butt over his groin. On an ordinary day this would have elicited some perverse responses, but not it only earned a swat from him, to which she responded with an evil cackle. "C'mon, bossman!" crooned the distorted lady. Her face hovered mere centimeters from his own. Thank the gods for lack of noses, or they'd be bumping right now. "Dis be's importaaaant!"  
  
"What could be more important," he grumbled, "than sleep?"  
  
"Da radio!" His eyes opened. She grinned at the reception milky eyes wide and sharpened teeth glistening. "Dere be's a - a transmissionthing! Somebody be's talkin' _on our frequency_!"  
  
Okay, so ... that woke him up. He held up a hand. The woman grabbed it, jerked him upwards fiercely, and basically dragged him down the stairs, into the office ... Once upon a time it was organized. Better than it was now. Important memos and notes had turned yellow with age, words faded from their holding place. And the radio circuit board had certainly seen better days. But ...  
  
There was a voice. Warped and unintelligible. _At first_. But with the proper turning of a few dials ...  
  
_" ... and first responders as they respond to emergencies. Firefighters Margo McKelvey ... and Leroy Connolly completed their tours ... as firefighters in this life."_  
  
It was a ghost whispering into their ears. A page from ancient history springing to life. His legs became gelatin. At least his bedside companion was keen enough to slide a chair beneath his falling rump, or he'd have been on the floor.  
  
_"Be safe ... until we ... meet again. Central ... clear at 18:23 hours."_  
  
Scarlet was dancing behind him. "See? **_See_**? I be's tellin' ya, but yah wouldn't be's listenin' to meee - "  
  
" ... Shit ... " Donald Mason leaned back in the dusty chair and rubbed his eyes. " ... Peanut?"


End file.
